FELICITY 

Clara  E  Laughlin 


FELICITY 


Of  CALIF.  LIBHABY,  MS  OGELSS 


She  was  playing  her  dual  role  in  Mariaiina. 

See  page  145. 


FELICITY 

The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 


BY 

CLARA    E.   LAUGHLIN 


ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

ALICE    BARBER   STEPHENS 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK::::::::::::::::::::  1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published,  March,  1907 


TO 

LONELY    FOLK, 
ON   THE    HEIGHTS    OR    OTHERWHERES. 


2131079 


CONTENTS 

PART  i 

OPENING   IN    MILLVILLE,   MASS., 
IN  JUNE,    1869 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    "  THE  PRINCE  OF  VAGABONDS  "...        3 

II.    THE  PAINS  THAT  NATURE  WENT  TO,  TO 

PROVIDE  AN  EXTRAORDINARY   TYPE     20 

III.  Two  DECIDE  FOR  CELEBRITY    ....     33 

IV.  THE     NEW     LIFE     BEGINS  —  WITHOUT 

"STRUTTING"     • 48 

V.    THE     NEW      LIFE      GROWS     TIRESOME, 

WITHOUT  u  STRUTTING  "   ....     65 

VI.    THE  MAKING  OF  A  COMEDIENNE        .     .     76 
VII.    THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  'WITCHING  SMILE     92 

VIII.  VINCENT,  THE  DEBONAIR,  DOES  A  GAL- 
LANT THING  THAT'S  FRAUGHT  WITH 
DESTINY 100 

IX.     "THE   BIG,    OPEN    ROAD,    WHERE    THE 

PASSPORT  is  SYMPATHY"    .     .     .     .116 
vii 


Contents 

pARr  ii 

TWELVE   YEARS   LATER 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

X.    ALL  THAT  GLITTERS  is  NOT  HAPPINESS  133 

XI.    A  MUMMER'S  END 153 

XII.    SOME    QUESTIONS    THAT    WERE    NEVER 

ANSWERED 169 

XIII.  "  NOT    WILLING    TO    BE    FELT    SORRY 

FOR" 186 

XIV.  IN    WHICH  "STARRING,"  IT    SEEMS,  is 

LONESOME  BUSINESS 198 

XV.    "PEOPLE  ALWAYS  TALK"       .     .     .     .218 

XVI.    THE  SHINING  PATH  TO  THE  MOON      .  233 
XVII.    A    STAGE    LOVER    MAKES    REAL    LOVE, 

AND  IT'S  DIFFERENT 258 

XVIII.    FAME  FRIGHTENS  LOVE  ;    WANT  Woos 

HIM 276 

XIX.    "THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  SUCCESS"     .     .  298 

XX.    VIGIL 324 

XXI.    VINCENT  is  "  MADE  SQUARE  "...  349 

PART  III 
OPENING  AT  BRIARWOOD,   MISS.,  MARCH,    1898 

XXII.    SOMETHING  SET  APART 387 

XXIII.    "THE  BRUSHWOOD  PILES"     .     .     .     .413 

viii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

She  was  playing  her  dual  role  in   Marianna.      (See 

page  145) Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Thus  he  rehearsed  Felicity  in  her  first  part  ...     63 

For  a  woman  in  her  position!      Why,  the   world 

was  hers 183 

"  Vincent!  "  she  entreated,  "  Vincent !  don't  go  !  "   380 


PART  I 

OPENING  IN  MILLVILLE,  MASS.,  IN  JUNE,  1869 


FELICITY 


CHAPTER    I 


THE   PRINCE   OF   VAGABONDS  " 


"TT'S  too  bad,  father,  to  thrust  'the  shop'  at 
JL  you  the  very  first  day  of  your  vacation,  but 
you  know  you  needn't  go  to  the  play  if  you  don't 
feel  equal  to  it.  The  boys'll  be  disappointed,  if 
you  don't,  but  they  didn't  really  get  this  show  up 
for  your  benefit,  though,  of  course,  they'll  be  glad 
to  have  you  as  guest  of  honor." 

Mrs.  Allston  made  her  little,  laughing  apology 
with  the  air  of  one  who  knew  it  would  be  hand- 
somely received.  She  was  a  pleasant-faced  young 
woman,  spoiled  for  beauty  by  the  tendency  of  her 
large,  pale  eyes  to  be  of  the  variety  her  father 
called  "  hard  boiled  "  and  by  the  wide  mouth  like 
his;  yet  attractive  in  no  small  degree  because  of 
the  animation  in  her  countenance  and  in  her 
manner. 

"  If  it  will  bore  you  the  least  bit  in  the  world," 
she  went  on,  "  to  sit  in  the  barn  for  an  hour  and 
watch  your  grandsons  enact  some  '  bloogy '  vil- 

3 


Felicity 


lany,  you  mustn't  think  of  doing  it — just  to  be 
polite." 

"  Nonsense !  you  know  I'm  never  so  polite  as 
to  let  myself  be  bored.  And  the  theatre  never 
bores  me.  Let's  see  the  play,  by  all  means. 
What's  it  to  be — Robinson  Crusoe?  " 

"  Not  today;  that's  a  favorite  bill — perhaps  the 
favorite  bill — but  the  leading  lady  balks  at  too 
much  of  it.  She's  never  been  able  to  induce  the 
boys  to  admit  a  Mrs.  Crusoe,  and  has  had  to  con- 
tent herself  with  playing  the  cannibals  en  masse. 
You  will  see  her  today  in  her  greatest  role — 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  She's  fine  as  Queen 
Philippa,  sucking  the  poison  from  the  wound  of 
her  Crusading  king;  but,  after  all,  that's  only  one 
scene,  you  know,  and  beyond  that  there's  nothing 
in  the  part.  And  we've  put  a  ban  on  Joan  of 
Arc  ever  since  Adams  got  so  worked  up,  as  execu- 
tioner, as  to  apply  a  real  match  to  the  faggot- 
pile.  There's  to  be  '  executing  '  today,  of  course, 
but  I  hardly  apprehend  any  catastrophes;  I  made 
the  dreadful  axe  myself — out  of  cardboard,  pasted 
over  with  silver  paper — and  I  can  guarantee  its 
safety  in  the  most  frenzied  hands." 

"  Who  wields  the  axe?  " 

"  Morton;  he's  never  had  an  *  executing  part ' 
before,  and  he's  very  proud.  Adams  has  always 
seized  the  most  bloodthirsty  parts  for  himself,  but 
there  was  trouble  over  the  last  show,  in  which 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

Adams  did  a  lot  of  '  tommyhawking,'  as  they  call 
it,  and  Morton  had  to  be  '  tommyhawked,'  so  the 
chopping,  they  tell  me,  falls  to  Morton  today." 

"  I'd  hate  to  be  Queen  Mary,  and  suffer  the 
full  fervor  of  that  pent-up  longing  to  slay !  " 

"  Oh,  Queen  Mary  likes  ardent  slaying;  '  there's 
naught  that's  timorous  '  about  her,  as  you'll  see." 

"  And  who  is  this  young  person  '  of  virtues  and 
of  talents  all  compact '  ?  " 

"  Our  next-door  neighbor,  Felicity  Fergus." 

"  What !  A  New  England  child  called  Felicity  ? 
I've  heard  of  'em  called  Prudence  and  Content  and 
Charity,  and  all  the  meek  virtues,  but  I  never 
thought  to  hear  one  called  Happiness.  I  should 
think  that,  in  New  England,  such  a  name  would  be 
considered  tempting  Providence." 

"  She's  not  all  New  England.  I'll  tell  you  about 
her  later;  there's  a  story  back  of  her.  Just  now 
I've  got  to  get  out  a  sheet  I've  promised  for  a 
curtain,  and  attend  to  other  things  '  not  equally 
made  glorious  by  the  claims  of  art.'  In  about 
twenty  minutes  we'll  proceed  to  the  play,  if  you're 
so  inclined." 

"  Methinks,  me  lady,  I  could  not  well  be  other- 
wise, after  all  you've  told  me." 

Mrs.  Allston  shook  her  father  gently  by  the 
shoulders  as  she  passed  him  on  her  way  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Ah,  but  it's  good  to  have  you  here !  "  she 


Felicity 

cried.  "  You  don't  know  how  delicious  the  old, 
stage  nonsense  talk  seems  to  me,  after  months 
of  prosaic  speaking.  I've  wondered,  a  thousand 
times,  what  would  happen  if  I  were  to  unloose 
a  little  of  our  dear  old  foolishness  on  these  staid 
new  neighbors  of  mine.  They've  expected  some- 
thing queer  of  an  actor's  daughter,  and  I've  fairly 
itched  to  give  it  to  'em.  But  it  wouldn't  do;  one 
can't  be  queer  and  comfortable,  and  I've  chosen 
conformity  and  comfort.  While  you're  here, 
though,  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  babble  the  nonsense 
of  the  wise  you  taught  me,  all  the  time." 

Her  father  pulled  her  face  down  to  his  and 
tweaked  her  ears  caressingly. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  didn't  give  you  a  very  good 
raising  for  a  work-a-day  world,  my  dear.  I've 
often  thought  of  that,  and  wondered  if  I  oughtn't 
to  regret  it." 

"  Don't  you  ever,  again !  "  was  the  happy  re- 
sponse. "  I  wouldn't  take  the  wealth  of  Ind  for 
my  blessedly  peculiar  training.  I  only  hope  I  can 
pass  some  measure  of  it  on  to  the  boys." 

After  his  daughter  was  gone  Phineas  Morton 
sat  reflecting,  whimsically,  on  what  she  had  just 
suggested  to  him  rather  than  told  him — the 
novelty  of  his  situation  lending  lively  color  to  his 
thoughts. 

Getting  up,  he  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  at  Federal  Street,  squinting  quizzically  at  it 

6 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

as  it  stretched  its  prim  length  under  a  brilliant 
June  sky. 

Hands  deep  in  trousers  pockets,  the  old  man 
studied  the  unaccustomed  vista.  As  well  as  if  he 
had  had  magic  sight,  he  could  see  the  life  that 
went  on  behind  those  staid  house  fronts;  as  well, 
almost,  as  if  he  had  had  the  scales  of  final  appraise- 
ment, he  could  estimate  the  character  that  was 
shaping  itself  to  type  in  those  orderly  dwellings. 

It  was  a  strange  place  for  Fate  to  set  down  his 
child.  It  was  a  strange  place  for  Fate  to  put 
him,  hailed  the  prince  of  all  vagabond  players,  for 
a  vacation.  He  wanted  to  visit  with  Frances  and 
her  children,  but  he  doubted  his  ability  to  breathe 
Millville  air  for  a  month.  When  the  fret  of  the 
road  was  on  him  he  had  thought  the  New  England 
village  quiet  promised  peace.  But  when  the  peace 
he  had  never  learned  to  enjoy  lay  at  hand,  the  life- 
long habit  of  the  road  would  not  yield  to  exorcism, 
and  although  he  had  arrived  in  Millville  but  that 
morning,  he  was  already  irked  with  its  unwonted- 
ness. 

His  daughter  had  been  here  only  a  few  months, 
brought  hither  by  a  change  in  her  husband's  busi- 
ness interests,  and  this  was  his  first  visit  to  her  new 
home.  Her  mother  had  died,  early  in  the  year, 
and  old  Phineas  felt  impelled,  in  his  loneliness,  to 
seek  the  comfort  of  kith  and  kin  rather  than  the 
distractions  of  Europe,  where  they  had  spent  their 

7 


Felicity 

summers — he  and  "  Ma  "  —for  many  years.  But 
his  heart  misgave  him  about  Millville,  at  this  very 
outset. 

"  It's  the  price  of  the  game,"  he  soliloquized, 
"  that  there's  no  let-up  to  it.  When  you  begin, 
you've  got  to  go  on — to  the  end.  Nature  doesn't 
provide  any  peaceful  old  age  for  mummers,  with 
their  curse  of  the  wandering  foot.  Peaceful  old 
age  is  for  these  folks,  behind  their  green  shutters 
and  fan-light  doors.  Ah,  well !  I'm  satisfied.  Let 
me  die  with  my  boots  on,  having  known  the  joy 
of  the  road  !  " 

The  celebrated  comedian  was  a  spare  little  man 
with  agility  still  indicated  in  every  move,  despite 
his  sixty-four  years.  His  complexion  was  delicately 
ruddy;  his  thin  hair  had  turned  almost  impercepti- 
bly from  ashen  blond  to  silver  and  was  now  scarce 
lighter  than  it  had  always  been ;  and  his  wide-apart, 
pale-blue  eyes  were  so  deep-set  that  they  frequently, 
especially  from  a  distance  and  when  glowing  with 
strong  feeling,  gave  the  effect  of  being  dark.  They 
were  rather  small  eyes,  but  Phineas  was  wont  to 
observe  that  Nature  had  more  than  made. up  to  him 
in  the  size  of  his  mouth  and  his  nose  and  his  ears. 
The  latter  were  the  big,  generous  ears  of  the  big, 
generous  nature.  The  nose  had  that  size  supposed 
to  be  inevitable  with  men  of  strong  character.  "If 
I,"  said  Phineas,  "  had  lived  a  few  years  earlier, 
the  stage  would  have  lost  me :  the  Duke  o'  Welling- 

8 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

ton — for  whom  the  boots  are  named,  y'  know ! — 
would  have  seized  me  for  generalship  in  his  army." 
The  Duke  of  Wellington,  on  the  contrary,  would 
have  done  no  such  thing;  for  if  he  was  a  student  of 
physiognomy  enough  to  know  that  men  likely  to 
prove  good  generals  would  have  big  noses — like 
his  own — he  must  have  been  student  enough  to 
know  that  no  man  could  have  that  mouth  of 
Phineas's  and  be  a  man  of  blood  and  battle.  It 
was  the  mouth  of  the  mime,  but  it  was  more  than 
that — it  was  distinctively  the  mouth  of  the  come- 
dian. There  was  something  in  its  great  width,  in 
the  extreme  length  and  mobility  of  the  upper  lip, 
in  the  tucking  in  at  the  corners,  that  spelled  comedy 
to  the  least  observing;  there  was  something  in  the 
peculiar  line  of  compression  that  the  thin,  tight- 
closing  lips  made,  that  was  essentially  not  grim  but 
humorous,  not  at  all  ascetic  but  full  of  the  enjoy- 
ment of  life.  Sometimes,  to  amuse  a  child  or  a 
crony,  he  would  cover  all  the  upper  part  of  his  face 
with  his  hand,  and  with  that  wonderfully  flexile 
mouth  alone  would  run  the  gamut  of  characters  and 
emotions  so  understandably  that  the  littlest,  least 
intelligent  beholder  would  shout  with  glee  and  the 
oldest,  most  intelligent  beholder  would  be  lost  in 
dumb  amaze.  Perhaps  his  mouth  had  not  pre- 
destined him  to  comedy  as  he  believed;  perhaps  a 
lifetime  of  smiles  had  altered,  not  confirmed,  the 
natural  habit  of  a  mouth  that  might  as  easily  have 

9 


Felicity 


been  trained  to  tragic  utterance.  But  there  was 
nothing  equivocal  about  that  mouth  now.  Withal, 
with  that  roundness  of  countenance  which  age  had 
not  worn  upon,  and  that  fairness  of  hair  and  blue- 
ness  of  eyes  and  delicate  ruddiness  of  complexion, 
he  had  a  delicious  ability  to  simulate  youthfulness, 
nay,  childishness,  so  that  when  he  pulled  one  of 
those  sparse  light  locks  down  on  his  forehead  and 
gave  you  an  imitation  of  a  little  boy  speaking  a 
piece  at  a  country-school  exhibition,  you  had  all 
you  could  do  to  remember,  if,  indeed,  you  cared 
to,  that  it  was  art  and  not  nature  you  saw  before 
you. 

"  Ready,  father?  "  Mrs.  Allston  stood  in  the 
doorway.  The  sound  of  her  voice  breaking  sud- 
denly upon  his  revery  made  him  remember,  as  he 
mused  on  "  the  joy  of  the  road,"  how  he  had,  in 
his  best  wisdom  at  the  time,  opposed  that  joy  for 
his  daughter.  Now,  reckoning  what  heritage  of 
unrest  he  had  given  her,  and  recoiling  from  the 
dozy  peace  of  Millville,  he  wondered  if  he  had 
not,  perchance,  done  her  an  irreparable  injury. 

The  play  was  in  the  barn  and  the  price  of  admis- 
sion was  a  penny — no  pins  taken  for  currency  and 
no  credit  extended.  A  pass  was  offered  the  pro- 
fession, but  the  profession  declined  it  and  bought 
a  seat  for  a  quarter,  which  was  going  ahead,  he 
remarked,  of  the  rates  paid  to  hear  Jenny  Lind, 
nineteen  years  ago,  or,  more  recently,  to  see  the 

10 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

farewell  performance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles 
Kean. 

Besides  Phineas  Morton  and  his  daughter,  there 
were  present  nine  children  and  four  women — one 
of  the  latter  the  star's  aunt  and  the  other  three 
attracted  by  the  rumor  that  the  Allston  boys'  grand- 
father would  be  present.  None  of  them  would 
have  gone  to  see  him  act,  but  they  knew  of  no  law 
against  going  to  watch  him  "  look  on." 

The  play  was  not  Schiller's,  Mrs.  Allston  ex- 
plained when  they  were  seated.  The  text  used 
was  the  star's  own  dramatization  of  history. 

"  It  seems  Queen  Mary  is  her  favorite  heroine, 
and  that  the  story  of  the  poor  lady's  sufferings  has 
been  told  and  retold  to  her  till  she  knows  it  by 
heart.  So  she  has  constructed  her  own  play,  which 
may  lack  a  little  in  conversation  but  will  be  very 
strong  in  action — only  the  bloodiest  scenes  being 
enacted." 

In  scene  one,  the  Queen  was  disclosed  with  Riz- 
zio.  As  Morton  was  to  be  "  the  killer  "  in  the 
great,  final  act,  he  was  obliged  to  be  killed  in  this 
act.  He  wore  a  complete  suit  of  winter  under- 
wear, a  pair  of  slippers,  and  a  sword,  and  struck 
whanging  chords,  now  and  then,  on  a  borrowed 
guitar  whose  owner,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  was  not 
in  the  audience. 

The  queen  wore  a  trailing  robe  of  calico,  tucked 
up  in  front,  and  a  long  veil  of  white  mosquito 

ii 


Felicity 

netting  pinned  to  her  done-up  hair.  She  sewed  on 
a  sampler  which  had  once  known  the  touch  of  her 
Puritan  grandmother's  dutiful  little  fingers,  and 
cast  now  and  then  a  glance,  half  shiveringly  appre- 
hensive, half  impatiently  managerial,  toward  the 
door  where  Darnley  ought,  with  less  delay,  to  be 
making  his  appearance. 

Truth  to  tell,  the  play  went  a  little  slowly,  while 
Darnley  tarried  and  Mary  sewed  and  Rizzio 
whanged  the  untuned  guitar.  But  presently  there 
was  a  noise  of  stamping  feet  and  a  clattering 
assault,  the  murder  was  accomplished  and  the  mur- 
derer retreated,  grinning  sheepishly  and  pursued 
by  the  stricken  queen's  threat: 

"  I'll  blow  you  up  for  this!" 

The  next  act  exploited  a  feature  not  known  in 
any  previous  production  by  this  company  and  made 
possible  only  by  the  extraordinarily  heavy  receipts. 
The  Fourth  of  July  being  but  six  days  distant  and 
already  prepared  for  by  the  "  fore-handed,"  part 
of  a  package  of  hoarded  firecrackers  was  set  off 
under  a  tin  can  in  an  empty  stall  and  Adams's 
voice  was  heard  proclaiming,  "  I'm  killed !  "  while 
the  queen  told  Bothwell  (same  costume  as  Rizzio 
except  for  guitar)  that  "  it  serves  him  [Darnley] 
right" 

In  the  grand  finale  Adams  was  to  be  the  Earl  of 
Shrewsbury,  implacable  representative  of  hate- 
inspired  Elizabeth.  He  had  but  one  line  to  say, 

12 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

in  lieu  of  a  death  warrant,  which  Felicity  did  not 
know  how  to  counterfeit:  when  the  death  march 
reached  the  scene  of  execution,  Adams  was  to 
point  to  that  chopping-block  on  which  the  All- 
ston  logs  were  regularly  reduced  to  kindling,  and 
hiss  : 

"  Unhappy  queen  !    Behold  your  doom !  " 

But  when  they  reached  "  the  hall  "  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  grandfather,  whose  cheeks  were 
still  wet  with  the  tears  he  had  shed  over  the  pre- 
vious acts,  and  fearing  they  had  been  too  fright- 
fully realistic,  Adams  began  to  cry. 

"Adams!"  whispered  the  unhappy  queen, 
"what's  the  matter?  Say  your  speech."  And 
she  prompted  him. 

Snuffling  miserably,  the  inexorable  minister 
pointed  to  the  scarred  block  and  murmured  his 
vengeful  line.  But  worse  was  yet  to  come. 

When  the  lovely,  royal  head,  divested  of  its 
mosquito  bar,  was  on  the  block,  and  shivers  of  real 
horror  shook  the  juvenile  part  of  the  audience, 
Morton  stood  transfixed,  the  axe  uplifted  in  his 
hands. 

Nothing  happening,  the  queen  looked  up,  and 
martyrdom  gave  place  to  indignation  on  her  face. 

"Chop,  Morton!"  she  adjured;  "why  don't 
you  chop  ?  You  wanted  to  be  the  killer;  now  why 
don't  you  kill?" 

Then,  down  went  the  meek  eyes  again,  waiting 


Felicity 

the  end,  but  trembling  in  the  corners  of  the  queen's 
mouth  Phineas  could  see  a  heroically  repressed 
smile  of  comic  appreciation. 

The  children  clapped,  rather  fearsomely,  when 
the  deadly  blow  had  fallen;  the  ladies  choked  be- 
hind their  handkerchiefs;  but  Phineas  Morton 
roared  loud  and  long  and  tears  poured  down  his 
face  like  rain. 

"  I  want  to  meet  the  star,"  he  begged;  "  I  never 
saw  such  dramatic  instinct." 

And  when  told  that  the  star  had  never  been  to 
a  theatre  and  had  derived  all  her  ideas  of  things 
theatrical  from  his  grandsons,  he  was  the  more 
interested. 

"  She  has  always  impersonated  her  favorite 
heroes  and  heroines,"  said  her  aunt,  when  ques- 
tioned, "  but  all  children  do  that,  I  suppose.  I've 
almost  never  known  her  when  she  didn't  play  part 
after  part  by  herself,  with  no  audience  but  her 
other  self,  so  to  speak.  But  when  the  boys  came, 
and  she  found  that  they  liked  to  play,  too,  she  was 
quick  to  absorb  their  knowledge  of  the  theatre — 
to  have  a  curtain  and  stage  and  definite  acts,  and 
try  to  play  scenes  instead  of  just  vaguely  playing  be 
somebody." 

"  She's  a  born  actress,  if  I  don't  miss  my  guess," 
said  Phineas;  and  he  was  surprised  that  his  remark 
did  not  bring  the  look  of  resentment  he  had  ex- 
pected from  Amelia  Fergus.  Instead,  she  was  all 

14 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

eager  interest  and  plied  him  with  questions  about 
acting  as  a  career. 

"  I've  always  felt  she  was  a  remarkable  child," 
said  Amelia,  "  and  that  some  day  she  would  show 
signs  of  special  ability.  When  she  does  show  an 
inclination,  I  intend  that  she  shall  have  every  en- 
couragement." 

At  this,  Phineas,  looking  narrowly  at  the  Yankee 
spinster  and  noting  the  tell-tale  compression  of  her 
mouth,  knew  certainly  that  Amelia's  own  inclina- 
tion had  been  crossed  and  that,  with  the  world-old 
passion  of  maturity  for  securing  to  youth  those 
things  itself  has  failed  of,  she  would  fight  with  all 
her  strength  for  this  child's  opportunity. 

"  But  I  wonder  where  the  child's  parents  are," 
he  mused,  "  and  why  this  spare,  spinsterly  person 
is  so  passionate  about  her.  I  must  ask  Frances." 

Felicity  herself,  when  presented,  had  little  to 
say.  She  was  shy  of  strangers  at  all  times,  and 
this  afternoon  was  especially  embarrassed  by  the 
failure  of  her  players  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of 
their  play.  Like  all  children  of  extraordinarily 
lively  imagination,  she  suffered  a  great  deal,  either 
of  impatience  or  of  chagrin,  when  the  coaching 
and  exhorting  she  gave  her  friends  failed  to  work 
them  up  to  anything  like  that  vividness  of  pretence 
which  came  so  easily  to  her. 

Phineas  knew  how  she  felt;  in  all  the  years  since 
he  had  suffered  that  way  as  a  child,  the  feeling  had 

15 


Felicity 

never  become  a  memory  with  him — every  day 
brought  its  fresh  experience  of  the  hurt.  Only,  as 
the  years  went  by,  his  wonderful  grace  of  humor 
came  more  and  more  surely  to  his  rescue,  so  that 
the  net  result  of  it  all  was  neither  bitterness  nor 
self-pity,  but  a  constant  enrichment  of  that  comedy 
sense  which  was  his  genius.  He  wondered  if  he 
could  get  from  the  child's  chagrin  any  glint  of  that 
saving  humor.  If  he  could,  he  felt  that  he  would 
need  no  further  confirmation  of  his  estimate  of  her. 

So  he  shook  her  hand  gravely  when  she  was  pre- 
sented to  him  and  entered  into  a  conversation  in 
which  there  was  apparent  no  trace  of  grown-up 
condescension  to  a  child. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  feeling  a  little  bad  because 
your  players  didn't  do  their  best,"  he  said,  with  a 
fine  air  of  "  we-artists-have-like-sorrows,"  "  but  you 
mustn't.  You  must  remember  that  we  all  feel,  at 
times,  the  same  way  about  the  people  who  play 
with  us." 

And  then  he  told  her,  and  the  others  standing 
'round,  of  some  funny  things  that  had  happened 
to  famous  stars  as  they  travelled  from  place  to 
place  and  played  with  resident  stock  companies. 
Sometimes  the  stock  company  had  to  rehearse  a 
quite  strange  play  very  hurriedly,  and  ludicrous 
things  happened  when  the  star  tried  to  play  his 
finished  impersonation  in  a  company  that  stumbled, 
half-comprehendingly,  through  the  other  parts. 

16 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

Listening,  Felicity  forgot  her  embarrassment 
and  laughed  heartily,  her  eyes  shining  with  the 
excitement  of  that  most  delicious  sensation  that 
ever  comes  to  any  of  us,  young  or  old:  the  sensa- 
tion of  being  comprehended,  of  having  met  a  soul 
that's  kin  to  ours  and  dreams  our  dreams. 

"  When,"  asked  Amelia,  with  tremulous  eager- 
ness, "  ought  one  to  begin  getting  ready  for  the 
stage?  " 

"  As  soon  as  one  thinks  of  going  on." 

"Not  in  childhood?" 

"  Not  unless  it's  too  late  to  begin  in  babyhood. 
If  you  had  any  thought  of  the  stage  for  Felicity, 
here,  I'd  say,  put  her  on  at  once  and  let  her  play 
for  two  or  three  years,  to  get  used  to  the  theatre. 
Then,  about  the  time  she  begins  to  spindle  out  and 
get  impossible  for  child  parts,  I'd  put  her  to  school 
and  give  her  the  broadest  general  education  she'd 
take,  with  special  attention  to  literature  and  the 
history  of  the  drama.  She  must  have  elocution, 
too,  and  dancing,  and  music,  if  it's  in  her.  Then 
she'll  be  ready  to  begin  that  grind  of  actual  expe- 
rience in  which  she'll  learn  to  know  life  and  how 
to  reflect  it.  But  don't  forget  health — lots  of  it — 
and  never  lose  a  chance  to  develop  her  pluck;  she'll 
need  all  of  that  she  can  muster.  And,"  with  a 
twinkle,  "  she  needn't  be  at  too  much  pains  to  accu- 
mulate freckles,  or  get  round-shouldered,  or  lose 
her  front  teeth." 


Felicity 

Amelia  went  home  so  evidently  thoughtful  that 
Mrs.  Allston  chided  her  father,  gently,  for  what 
he  had  done. 

"  It  would  make  less  trouble  for  that  poor  soul," 
she  said,  "  if  you  persuaded  her  to  become  a — what 
do  they  call  it  ? — a  Nihilist,  and  blow  up  the  Czar. 
She  knows  no  more  of  a  stage  career  than  she 
knows  of  life  in  Borrioboola-Gha — not  so  much, 
because  they  learn  about  that  in  the  missionary 
society.  She's  always  been  taught  that  the  theatre 
is  a  sink-hole  of  iniquity,  and  while  she  doesn't 
quite  believe  that  now,  she's  as  far  from  guessing 
any  of  the  real  truth  about  it,  from  estimating  the 
strangeness  of  its  life,  as — as  my  pussy  is  I  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  Frances,  I  never  proselytize 
for  the  stage — that  I'm  like  most  of  those  on  it,  I 
advise  most  of  those  off  it  to  keep  off.  But,  some- 
how, today  I  had  a  queer,  tugging  feeling  when  I 
watched  that  little,  vivid  thing,  all  fancy  and  fer- 
vor, and  tried  to  imagine  her,  world  without  end, 
in  Federal  Street.  I  knew  the  road  I've  travelled 
would  be  a  rocky  road  for  her  tender  feet,  but  it 
came  to  me,  all  in  a  flash,  how  she  would  always  be 
feeling  passions  which  her  little  world  would  not 
share,  any  more  than  Adams  and  Morton  shared 
her  feeling  for  Queen  Mary.  And,  suddenly,  the 
joys  of  the  rough  old  road  seemed  more  than  worth 
all  its  perils  and  pains,  and  I  held  out  my  hand 
to  that  little  child,  to  come  travel  the  world's 

18 


"The  Prince  of  Vagabonds" 

highway.  Next  time  I  see  her,"  he  finished,  whim- 
sically, "  I'll  tell  her  not  to  come — that  the  road  is 
full  o'  big,  black  bears!  " 

He  rolled  his  eyes  and  assumed  such  an  expres- 
sion of  terror  that  his  daughter  laughed  away  her 
misgivings,  just  as  he  had  meant  she  should. 

"  But  me,"  he  went  on,  "  I'm  so  used  to  bears 
I  get  lonesome  where  there  aren't  any.  I  suppose, 
for  instance,  there  isn't  a  poker  game  worth  men- 
tioning, nearer  than  Boston?" 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  PAINS  THAT  NATURE  WENT  TO,  TO  PROVIDE 
AN  EXTRAORDINARY  TYPE 

THE  early  tea,  beloved  of  New  England,  was 
over  in  the  Allston  home.     Fortunately,  it 
disturbed  no  cherished  habit  of  the  guest,   long 
accustomed  to   eat   early  and   lightly   before  his 
evening's  work. 

The  boys  were  playing  in  the  street  and  in  neigh- 
boring yards,  and  their  father  had  gone  back  to 
the  bank  to  put  in  some  extra,  undisturbed  hours 
on  matters  of  importance. 

"  Now,"  said  Phineas,  smoking  his  pipe  com- 
fortably on  the  front  porch  in  the  long,  lingering 
dusk  of  nearly  the  longest  day,  "  now  tell  me  about 
little  Felicity,  and  how  a  child  ever  got  the  name 
of  Felicity  in  that  awful  house;  it  looks  like  a  stray 
piece  of  a  cotton  mill." 

'  That's  just  what  it  is.  It's  not  exactly  stray, 
for  it  was  put  there  with  full  intent,  but  it  is  really 
a  piece  of  the  Fergus  mills,  a  mile  away.  Felicity's 
grandfather  Fergus  built  the  mills  in  the  early 
fifties,  not  long  before  he  died,  and  at  the  same 

20 


An  Extraordinary  Type 

time  he  seems  to  have  ordered  a  certain  number  of 
cubic  feet  of  space  enclosed  for  a  home.  The 
architecture,  if  one  may  call  it  that,  is  the  same  in 
the  mills  and  in  the  home." 

"  Was  he  so  fond  of  the  mills  he  couldn't  bear 
to  be  away  from  them,  even  when  he  slept?  Or 
was  it  cheaper  to  build  both  alike?  " 

"  Well,  Millville  lays  it  to  the  cheapness,  but  I 
gather,  from  what  I'm  told  about  it,  that  a  good 
deal  may  be  laid  to  sheer  lack  of  imagination.  I 
suppose  it  never  occurred  to  the  old  man  or  to  his 
wife  that  it  could  possibly  matter  what  kind  of  a 
house  one  had  so  long  as  it  was  substantial  and  of 
sufficient  size.  They  built  the  house  on  the  same 
principle  as  the  mills,  I  tell  you:  the  sturdiest 
material  obtainable  at  a  reasonable  price,  enclos- 
ing space  enough  to  meet  their  working  require- 
ments. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  the  inside  of  that  house;  it's 
a  study.  And  I  want  you  to  meet  Mrs.  Fergus — 
though  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  brought  about, 
because  she  knows  you're  an  actor,  and  she'd  as 
lief  meet  Apollyon.  She  won't  have  anything  to 
do  with  me,  partly  because  I'm  an  actor's  child  and 
partly  because  I'm  a  Unitarian.  When  we  came 
here  and  I  went  to  the  little  Unitarian  church,  she's 
reported  to  have  said,  '  Well,  what  else  could  any 
one  expect?  '  I'm  told  she  once  got  up  and  walked 
majestically  out  of  church  because  a  visiting 

21 


Felicity 

preacher,  too  advanced  in  his  views,  quoted  Emer- 
son in  the  pulpit." 

Mrs.  Allston  caught  a  twinkle  in  her  father's 
eye,  which  told  her  he  meant  to  force  acquaintance 
with  Jane  Fergus  by  whatever  assault  or  strategy 
the  conditions  of  the  defence  seemed  to  require. 

"  Don't  look  too  confident,"  she  laughed; 
"  you've  never  undertaken  anything  quite  so  diffi- 
cult as  that  in  your  life." 

"  A  terrible  ogre,  is  she?  " 

"  No;  really  a  very  good,  kind  woman,  accord- 
ing to  her  lights,  but  her  lights  are  dim ;  they  don't 
reach  any  distance  at  all  into  the  outer  darkness 
that  surrounds  her  way  of  thinking  and  living. 

"  You  said  you  noticed  the  compression  'round 
Miss  Amelia's  mouth.  People  say  her  brother 
Robert,  Felicity's  father,  had  the  same  look,  as  if 
he  had  habitually,  on  opening  his  mouth  to  speak, 
shut  it  again  on  second  thought,  as  safer.  Jane 
Fergus  is  dominating,  and  everybody  who  comes 
in  contact  with  her  finds  it  less  trouble  to  let  her 
dominate  than  to  oppose  her.  It  seems  Amelia 
was  a  clever  girl,  fond  of  reading  and  hungry  for 
any  kind  of  culture  that  would  widen  the  span  of 
her  prison-house.  When  she  was  young  she  fell 
in  love  with  a  Unitarian  preacher  who  knew  Mar- 
garet Fuller  and  Emerson  and  Channing,  and  who 
lived  in  a  world  of  intellectual  delights  that  dazzled 
this  poor  Amelia  with  the  promise  of  rare  fellow- 

22 


An  Extraordinary  Type 

ships.  But  when  it  came  to  the  issue  and  she  was 
bidden  to  choose  between  her  preacher  and  all  else 
that  belonged  to  her,  she  hadn't  the  courage  to 
emancipate  herself.  Poor  thing !  She'd  never 
learned  to  call  her  soul  her  own.  Later,  she  was 
pretty  nearly  excommunicated  or  burned  for  a 
witch,  or  whatever  was  the  fashionable  torture  of 
the  time,  for  reading  the  dissolute  poets — Byron 
and  Shelley  in  particular — and  for  trying  to  learn 
German,  which  was  held  to  be  the  rapid  road  to 
materialism.  After  that,  she  gave  up  the  struggle 
on  her  own  behalf,  but  renewed  it  later  in  behalf  of 
this  child. 

"  The  brother,  Robert,  had  never  struggled,  but 
he  was  like  most  persons  who  have  repressed  and 
repressed:  he  had  a  lot  of  stored-up  energy  that 
was  bound  to  burst  forth  some  time,  and  it  did. 
When  he  was  nearly  forty  he  fell  in  love,  and  then 
there  was  no  holding  him  back  any  more. 

"  He  went  abroad  for  the  first  time,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  '59,  and  in  Edinburgh  fell  in  with  a  Scotch- 
American  named  McClintock,  who  was  travelling 
with  his  daughter,  Cecile.  This  girl  was  about 
eighteen,  a  sunny,  irresponsible,  law-unto-herself 
little  creature,  the  only  child  of  a  Scotch  Presby- 
terian father  and  a  French  Catholic  mother — a 
kind  of  union  not  uncommon  in  their  part  of  the 
world,  I'm  told. 

"  They  lived  in  Mississippi,  where  Mr.  McClin- 

23 


Felicity 

tock  owned  a  big  cotton  plantation  just  south  of 
Vicksburg.  Mrs.  McClintock  was  quite  recently 
dead,  and  Mr.  McClintock  was  trying  to  find  com- 
fort in  a  tour  of  his  boyhood  haunts — the  first 
since  he  had  left  them  to  go  to  the  new  world. 

"  There  couldn't  possibly  have  been  a  more 
impossible  thing  than  that  staid  Robert  Fergus 
should  have  fallen  madly  in  love  with  this  child 
of  the  slave-owning  South,  but  Fate  must  have  been 
in  an  ironical  mood,  for  that  poor,  rigid  Round- 
head, who  had  never  been  young,  seems  no  more 
than  to  have  laid  eyes  on  this  capricious  little 
daughter  of  the  gay,  Cavalier  South,  than  he  be- 
came willing  to  defy  the  whole  world,  his  mother 
included,  to  get  her." 

*'  Of  course !  Nothing  could  be  more  inevi- 
table." 

''  What  surprises  me,  though,  is  that  she  was 
persuaded  to  take  him." 

"  Not  at  all;  I  know  that  type  of  child,  and  I 
don't  doubt  that  all  she  needed  to  make  her  declare 
for  Fergus,  in  the  face  of  all  odds,  was  one  little 
suggestion  that  she  ought  never  to  do  so.  There's 
no  obstinacy  on  earth  like  the  obstinacy  of  a  woman 
born  and  bred  as  she  was.  You  can't  assail  it, 
because  it  never  comes  into  the  open  to  fight;  and 
you  can't  overwhelm  it,  because  it  thrives  and 
increases  on  opposition." 

'  Well,  whatever  the  reason,  she  took  it  into  her 

24 


An  Extraordinary  Type 

head  that  Fergus  was  the  man  for  her,  and  her 
father,  when  he  saw  how  things  were,  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  situation  with  a  great  deal  of  good 
grace,  I'm  told.  Of  course,  Fergus  was  a  North- 
erner, but  he  was  a  Scotchman " 

"  And  McClintock,  very  probably,  had  learned 
to  esteem  Scotch  staidness  in  his  long  association 
with  the  men  of  his  region.  God  knows  I  love  the 
Cavalier,  even  if  he's  a  scamp  and  a  vagabond! 
But  when  it  comes  to  marrying  your  daughter  to 
a  man  you  think  of  more  than  your  personal  prefer- 
ences. McClintock  may  easily  have  been  not  quite 
inconsolable  to  give  his  little,  winsome,  wilful  child 
to  a  man  who,  whatever  else  he  might  be  or  not  be, 
would  be  true  to  her  to  his  last  breath." 

"  But  I'll  warrant  you  can't  see  how  Jane  Fergus 
could  be  less  than  inconsolable  to  give  her  rigidly- 
raised  son  to  the  daughter  of  a  slave-owning  French 
Catholic!  Why,  they  say  Mrs.  Fergus  was  the 
hottest  Abolitionist  in  town!  Miss  Amelia  told 
me  that  the  day  her  brother  announced  his  engage- 
ment was  a  Sunday  on  which  his  mother  had  just 
decided  it  was  wrong  to  operate  cotton  mills  and 
make  a  livelihood  off  a  product  '  drenched  with  the 
blood  of  slaves.'  A  visiting  preacher  had  worked 
her  up  to  this  fine  frenzy  where  she  wanted  to  close 
the  Fergus  mills  and  throw  several  hundred  opera- 
tives out  of  employment  in  the  dead  of  winter; 
and  when  Robert  wouldn't  work  up  with  her,  and 

25 


Felicity 

she  upbraided  him,  the  dreadful  truth  he'd  lacked 
courage  to  tell  before,  came  out." 

"  That  must  have  been  a  scene !  " 

"No;  Miss  Amelia  says  it  wasn't.  You  know 
your  old  contention,  that  the  drama  in  real  life 
isn't  dramatic,  except  in  significance;  but  that  on 
the  stage  people  have  to  act  to  make  manifest 
what  they're  feeling.  Mrs.  Fergus,  it  seems,  never 
said  a  word,  but  walked  from  the  room  in  that 
awful  silence  which  hurts  so,  because  your  anger 
and  pleading  and  reason  alike  fall  on  unheeding 
ears.  When  people  pride  themselves  on  silence 
they  make  such  a  fetich  of  it,  that  they'd  rather  be 
grilled  over  a  slow  fire  than  allow  rhyme  or  reason 
to  break  down  their  implacableness." 

Phineas  shot  a  keen  look  at  his  daughter.  She 
had  grown  very  impassioned,  for  a  mere  recital  of 
neighborhood  history,  and  he  thought  he  knew, 
now,  more  than  he  had  been  able  to  guess  this 
afternoon,  of  how  things  fared  with  her  in  the 
even  tenor  of  her  life  at  Millville. 

'Well,  what  happened  next?"  he  prompted, 
and  Mrs.  Allston's  eyes  lost  their  far-seeing  look 
as  she  resumed  the  thread  of  her  story. 

"  It  was  a  hard  winter  for  them  all,  as  you  may 
suppose.  Mrs.  Fergus  never  once  referred  to  the 
approaching  marriage,  her  daughter  says,  but  she 
never  lost  an  opportunity  to  express  her  hatred  of 
the  South  and  all  it  contained  and  stood  for.  But 

26 


An  Extraordinary  Type 

when  it  came  to  a  question  of  closing  the  mills, 
Amelia  sided  with  her  brother  against  the  proposi- 
tion, and  as  the  three  were  equal  owners,  a  majority 
ruled.  But  the  lust  for  martyrdom  was  strong  in 
the  old  lady,  and  her  third  of  the  mills'  earnings 
remained  untouched,  until  after  the  war. 

"  In  the  spring,  Robert  Fergus  went  down  to 
Briarwood  Plantation  and  got  his  bride.  They 
had  to  be  married  very  quietly,  because  there  was 
no  more  friendliness  for  Massachusetts  in  Missis- 
sippi than  t'other  way  'round. 

"  It  seems  as  if  the  Fates  must  have  conspired 
to  make  things  as  hard  as  possible  for  everybody, 
for  when  little  Cecile  begged  to  take  her  mammy, 
her  black  Zilianne,  and  Alec  McClintock  gave 
the  old  woman  her  freedom  papers,  Robert  Fergus 
didn't  have  the  heart  to  say  No,  and  Millville  was 
treated  to  a  grand  sensation  when  the  Fergus  bride 
came  home,  accompanied  by  her  '  slave.'  There 
was  so  much  commotion  about  it,  that  a  curious 
thing  happened:  old  Jane  Fergus  took  up  the 
cudgels  in  defence  of  her  daughter-in-law !  " 

"Oh,  lovely!" 

"  I  knew  that  would  interest  you." 

"Interest  me?  It  tickles  me  to  death.  There's 
nothing  more  certain  in  human  nature  than  the 
appeal  of  the  under  dog.  If  Millville  had  pitied 
that  child  Cecile,  her  mother-in-law  would  have 
hated  her.  But  the  confounded  village  took  the 

27 


Felicity 

one  way  to  make  that  unrelenting  old  woman 
soften  to  the  poor  child.  Why  will  people  never 
learn  that  persecution  is  the  most  foolish  practice 
in  the  world,  that  it  makes  the  victims  stubborner 
and  makes  their  cause  seem  more  just  when  seen 
through  pity?  If  I  hated  a  man,  I  should  try  to 
make  him  successful;  I'd  never  seek  to  do  him 
injury.  Load  him  with  gifts,  and  the  world  will 
hate  him.  Harm  him  while  he's  down,  and  the 
world  will  hate  you." 

'  Well,  early  in  January,  you  know,  Mississippi 
voted  for  secession.  That  was  pretty  terrible,  in 
Millville.  Then,  ten  days  later,  her  senators  with- 
drew from  the  United  States  Senate,  and  within  a 
month  Jeff  Davis,  a  neighbor  and  friend  of  the 
McClintocks,  was  elected  President  of  the  rebel 
Confederacy.  Soon  after  that  happened,  little 
Cecile  Fergus  was  hissed  on  the  streets  of  Mill- 
ville. It  was  only  children,  voicing  the  table-talk 
of  their  elders,  who  yelled  '  Secesh  1  '  after  her  and 
threatened  her  with  snowballs  they  never  threw. 
But  it  was  as  terrifying  to  her  as  if  it  had  been 
the  whole  populace  of  Massachusetts,  backed  by 
artillery. 

"  After  that,  she  wouldn't  venture  out  of  the 
house  again,  but  sat  in  her  room,  weeping  piteously 
and  begging  to  be  taken  home.  But  she  was  far 
too  frail  to  stand  the  journey.  Robert  tried  to  get 
her  father  to  come  to  her,  but  he  couldn't ;  he  was 

28 


An  Extraordinary  Type 

deeply  concerned  in  the  affairs  of  his  state,  and  the 
annual  high  water  was  menacing  his  plantation. 

"  Miss  Amelia  says  it  was  wonderful  to  see  her 
mother  in  those  days — unbending  as  ever,  and  not 
able  in  her  withered  age  to  learn  any  of  the  sweet 
graces  of  loving — standing  over  that  poor  child, 
trying  to  keep  unhappiness  at  bay." 

At  this  point  in  her  recital,  Frances  Allston  could 
not  forbear  a  tender  smile  at  her  father's  enthusi- 
asm; she  knew  what  spot  she  had  touched  in  his 
great  range  of  interests.  If  there  was  one  thing 
that,  more  than  all  others,  kindled  the  fires  in  his 
blue  eyes  and  brought  the  glow  to  his  face,  it  was 
any  shred  of  commentary  on  his  kind  that  contra- 
dicted all  the  ordinary  evidence  about  a  character 
and  showed  the  outcropping  gentleness  of  the  harsh 
or  heroism  of  the  weak  or  heart-hunger  of  the 
churlish.  He  nodded  comprehension  when  she 
told  him  about  Jane  Fergus's  grim  surrender. 

"  She  used  to  tell  Cecile  she  mustn't  cry  so. 
'  You'll  mark  your  baby  with  tears,'  she  used  to 
say.  And  Cecile  was  terrified  by  the  mystery  and 
responsibility,  but  she  kept  on  crying. 

'  The  baby  came  on  the  last  day  of  March, 
and  when  the  only  thought  of  the  distraught  house- 
hold was  that  Cecile  was  slipping  away  from  them, 
she  startled  them  by  shaking  herself  free  for  an 
instant  from  the  haze  of  pain  and  weakness,  and 
calling,  '  Is  my  baby  safe  ?  '  They  showed  her  her 

29 


Felicity 

baby  and  she  seemed  satisfied  and  drifted  off  again. 
But  it  seems  that  even  in  her  dreams  she  must 
have  apprehended  awful  things,  for  whenever  she 
saw  the  baby  she  would  seem  so  anxious  about  it, 
and  usually  cry.  Then,  one  day,  when  Zili- 
anne  was  holding  it  for  her  to  look  at,  and 
she  murmured  '  Poor  li'l  baby,'  so  piteously, 
the  old  mammy  swore  it  was  the  finest  baby  she'd 
ever  seen  and  caught  it  up  and  nodded  and  laughed 
to  it  and  babbled  till  its  wee  face  dimpled  into  a 
smile,  or  what  looked  like  one.  '  Oh,  see !  '  cried 
the  little  mother,  '  she's  a  happy  baby !  See  her 
smile !  Felicite  !  Felicite !  ' 

"  She  was  so  much  comforted  by  that  smile  that 
she  rallied  a  good  deal,  but  that  very  day  came 
the  news  that  Sumter  was  fired  on,  and  try  as  they 
might  to  keep  it  from  her,  she  heard  of  it,  and  the 
excitement  drove  her  wild  again. 

'  The  Sixth  Massachusetts,  mustered  at  Lowell 
only  a  few  miles  away,  was  mobbed  in  Baltimore 
five  days  later,  and  that  set  this  community  wild. 
It  mustered  a  company  for  a  local  regiment,  and 
in  the  spring  evenings  the  recruits  marched  to  the 
sound  of  the  fife  and  drum,  past  here  on  their  way 
to  the  common.  Every  sound  drove  Cecile  to 
frenzy.  She  was  tormented  with  visions  of  her 
father  and  Robert  shooting  each  other  to  pieces. 

"  But  by  and  by  she  seemed  not  to  notice  the 
marching  feet  any  more,  and  her  tongue  babbled 

30 


An  Extraordinary  Type 

of  Briarwood  Plantation.  '  Take  me  home,  Rob- 
ert! '  she'd  cry.  '  Take  me  home!  '  It  was  the 
last  thing  she  said,  and  two  days  after  she  died 
he  took  her  home,  in  the  face  of  incredible  difficul- 
ties. Alec  McClintock  was  in  command  of  a  regi- 
ment, but  he  got  leave  to  be  at  Briarwood  long 
enough  to  see  his  little  girl  laid  beside  her  mother 
in  the  plantation  burial  plot.  And  then,  when  he 
was  leaving  to  go  back  to  the  defence  of  his  con- 
federacy, Robert  Fergus  grasped  his  hand  and  said, 
'  We  separate,  Alec  McClintock,  to  opposite  sides 
of  a  terrible  struggle.  I  can't  take  up  arms  against 
my  country,  but  neither  can  I  take  up  arms  against 
you  and  the  country  where  Cecile  lies.'  He  came 
home  and  joined  the  Sanitary  Commission,  and 
when  the  cotton  business  became  paralyzed  by  the 
war,  he  went  into  active  service  in  the  hospital 
camps,  and  died  in  the  fever  swamps  across  from 
Vicksburg  a  few  days  after  the  surrender — nomi- 
nally of  fever,  but  more  really  of  a  broken  heart. 
Three  years  later  Alec  McClintock  took  his  uncof- 
fined  body  from  the  trench  where  it  lay  and  buried 
it  beside  Cecile's  at  Briarwood.  McClintock  and 
Amelia  Fergus  were  left  co-guardians  of  the  child." 

"  And  the  child  of  all  that  sorrow  is  called 
Felicity?" 

"  It  was  the  only  thing  her  poor  little  mother 
had  ever  called  her,  and  when  the  time  for  her  bap- 
tism came  her  father  would  hear  of  no  other  name 


Felicity 

for  her.  He  compromised  with  his  mother  on  the 
'  ty '  spelling,  but  that  was  all.  How  she's  to  be 
Felicity,  though,  in  that  grim  household,  is  more 
than  I  can  see,  although  she  seems  to  be  a  born 
sunbeam.  There!  didn't  I  tell  you  there  was  a 
story  back  of  her?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Phineas,  wiping  his  eyes,  quite 
frankly  unashamed  of  his  tears,  "  and  if  I  know 
anything  of  this  world's  probabilities,  there's  a 
story  ahead  of  her,  too.  Nature  doesn't  go  to 
those  extraordinary  pains  to  produce  ordinary 
types.** 


CHAPTER    III 

TWO    DECIDE    FOR   CELEBRITY 

PROBABLY  only  one  thing  could  have  kept 
Phineas  Morton  in  Millville  all  summer, 
but  that  thing  happened:  he  fell  ill  before  he  had 
been  with  his  daughter  a  week,  and  after  a  sharp 
attack  of  gastric  fever  was  convalescent  for  inter- 
minable days  which  were  chiefly  beguiled  by  Felic- 
ity. The  child  was  completely  fascinated  by  him, 
and  he  found  her  the  winsomest  thing  he  had 
ever  known. 

Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  the  old  man 
and  the  little  girl  sat  together  and  held  converse 
about  things  he  knew  and  things  she  knew  and 
things  that  never  were  on  land  or  sea.  Some- 
times the  boys,  his  grandsons,  stayed  with  them 
for  a  while,  but  the  pressure  of  their  vacation  play 
was  great  and  their  interests  were  more  active 
than  Felicity's.  As  for  her,  nothing  was  of  suffi- 
cient charm  to  take  her  away  from  this  wondrous 
being  who  dreamed  her  dreams  and  yet  other 
dreams  which  he  taught  her;  who  knew  equally 
well  about  the  hobgoblins  and  Queen  Mary,  and 
who  understood  perfectly  when  you  told  him  how 

33 


Felicity 


hard  it  was  to  keep  from  laughing  in  church 
because  the  precentor  looked  so  much  like  the 
Cheshire  Cat  in  that  entrancing  "  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," on  which  Phineas  had  promptly  pounced 
for  his  own  delectation  and  which  he  had  delight- 
edly shared  with  this  little  friend.  Gran'ma  didn't 
think  the  precentor  looked  the  least  like  any  kind 
of  a  cat,  and  if  he  did,  that  was  a  misfortune 
not  to  be  laughed  at  at  any  time,  least  of  all  in 
God's  house.  Even  Aunt  Amelia  failed  to  see 
the  resemblance,  though  she  had  seen  the  book, 
and,  questioned  as  to  whether  God  thought  it 
wrong  to  laugh  "  if  you  couldn't  hardly  help  it," 
said  she  didn't  know,  but  if  Gran'ma  thought  so, 
that  was  enough. 

But  Phineas,  when  Felicity  pointed  out  to  him 
the  precentor  passing  the  house,  saw  the  likeness 
instantly,  roared  with  hearty  laughter  at  Felicity's 
representation  of  how  funny  he  looked  when  he 
sang,  and  opined  with  convincing  assurance  that 
God  liked  people,  especially  little  people,  to  laugh 
whenever  they  could. 

This  heresy,  repeated  at  home,  precipitated  a 
tremendous  crisis;  such  crises,  it  seems,  are  nearly 
always  precipitated  by  some  ludicrous  happening. 

At  supper  in  the  Fergus  home  Felicity  listened 
for  the  twentieth  time  to  her  grandmother's  dis- 
pleased comment  on  where  she  had  spent  her  after- 
noon. 

34 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

"  I  tell  you,  that  play-actor's  no  fit  company  for 
a  child,"  she  reiterated,  when  Felicity  had  obedi- 
ently given  account  of  herself  since  dinner. 

"  I  can't  see  that  he's  doing  her  a  bit  of  harm," 
Amelia  retorted,  as  always.  Though  she  was 
Felicity's  guardian,  she  felt  obliged  to  justify  her- 
self to  her  mother. 

"You'll  not  see  it  till  it's  too  late  to  mend," 
said  Jane  Fergus,  severely.  And  Felicity  won- 
dered till  she  was  weary  what  irreparable  harm 
could  come  to  her  through  Mr.  Morton,  and  why 
Gran'ma  could  not  be  made  to  feel  as  she  felt  his 
fascinations. 

She  was  coming  early  through  her  first  experi- 
ence of  that  universal  distress  in  which  we  battle 
with  the  prejudice  of  our  powers  that  be  against 
our  dearest  enchantment.  No  one  of  us,  presum- 
ably, grows  to  maturity  without  suffering  some 
degree  of  the  resentment  that  comes  when  ruthless 
hands  try  to  break  the  bonds  of  our  willing  thrall- 
dom  and  set  us  free  when  we  are  wishful  only  to 
stay  bound. 

Meditating  on  the  strange  perversity  of 
Gran'ma  and  wishing  delicacy  did  not  forbid  her 
asking  Mr.  Morton  about  it,  she  slipped  from  her 
chair,  when  permission  was  granted,  and  went  into 
the  kitchen,  unfailing  distraction  for  childish  wor- 
ries, to  fill  in  a  too  brief  interval  before  evening 
prayers. 

35 


Felicity 


Zilianne,  who  had  been  her  nurse  while  she 
needed  one,  was  a  fixture  in  the  household  and  now 
filled  the  offices  of  cook.  In  the  course  of  the 
supper  hour  she  had  gone  into  her  pantry  and 
found  a  mouse-trap  sprung  and  a  tiny,  long-sought 
culprit  inside. 

Felicity  greeted  the  mouse  with  eager  interest. 
"  Oh,  what  you  goin'  to  do  with  him,  Zilly?  " 
she  cried. 

"  Sho'  gwine  ter  drown  'im,  honey,"  said  the 
old  woman,  "  he  bin  a-eatin'  mah  cohn-meal;  now 
I'se  ketched  'im  I'se  gwine  mek  'im  sorry  fer  'is 
sins." 

"  He's  sorry  now,"  pleaded  Felicity,  promptly. 

"  Not  so  sorry  as  he'm  gwine  ter  be,"  promised 
Zilianne,  grimly. 

Felicity  began  to  cry.  "  Please  don't,  Zilly — 
please  don't  drown  him !  Give  him  to  me.  an'  I'll 
carry  him  mi-iles  away,  where  he  can't  ever  get 
back  any  more." 

"  How  kin  I  gi'  'im  ter  you?  You  ain't  think 
I'se  gwine  ter  let  you  traipse  off  wid  mah  onlies' 
mice-trap,  is  you?  I  sho'  wouldn'  nevah  see  hit 
agin." 

"  Give  him  to  me  in  a  little  box,  then. 
Wait " 

She  was  upstairs  and  down  again  in  a  twinkling, 
bringing  with  her  a  small  pasteboard  box  hastily 
emptied  of  some  doll-rag  hoardings. 

36 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

"  Put  him  in  here,  please,  and  I'll  carry  him 
a-wa-ay  off,"  she  urged. 

So  Zilianne  put  the  box  down  close  to  the  trap 
and  lifted  the  wire  door,  then  clapped  the  box  cover 
on  and  handed  over  the  reprieved,  with  many  cau- 
tions. 

"  First  I  must  poke  holes  in  his  housey,  so  he 
can  breathe,"  said  Felicity,  kindling  with  the  fine 
emotion  of  the  savior  and  the  more  primitive  thrill 
of  handling  danger.  "  And  then  I  must  put  him 
in  some  supper,  so  he  won't  starve." 

"  Ain't  gwine  ter  starve  ter-night,"  grunted  Zili- 
anne, "  he  des'  bustin'  full  o'  yo'  Gran'ma's  cheese 
an'  meal." 

"  Well,  le's  put  him  in  a  piece  for  breakfas' ; 
maybe  he  won't  know  how  to  find  breakfas',  far 
away  like  I'm  goin'  to  take  him." 

The  cheese  thus  eloquently  begged  was  scarcely 
crammed  through  the  air  holes — somewhat  to  the 
exclusion  of  air — when  the  call  to  prayers  sounded 
peremptorily  from  the  sitting-room. 

Felicity  meant  to  keep  "  Mr.  Mouse  "  until  the 
morning;  it  was  asking  too  much  of  human  nature 
to  expect  she  would  give  him  up  sooner.  And  any- 
way, she  was  not  allowed  out  of  the  yard  after 
supper. 

To  prayers,  therefore,  went  Mr.  Mouse — which 
was  no  more  than  proper  after  his  narrow  escape 
from  the  destroyer — and  in  his  queerly.  riddled 

37 


Felicity 

cardboard  home  was  stealthily  deposited  in  the 
obscurest  corner  of  the  sitting-room,  beyond  which 
corner,  if  the  truth  be  told,  Felicity's  thoughts  did 
not  once  soar  during  Scripture  reading  and  hymn- 
singing.  Then  Gran'ma,  looking  over  the  top  of 
her  spectacles  at  Felicity,  asked  solemnly: 

"What  is  sin?" 

Felicity  started  guiltily  as  she  thought  of  Mr. 
Mouse,  then  answered  glibly: 

"  Sin  is  any  want  of  conformity  unto  or  trans- 
gression of  the  law  of  God." 

It  was  strange  that  Gran'ma's  evening  question, 
selected  at  random  from  "The  Shorter  Catechism" 
to  keep  Felicity  from  forgetting  any  of  it,  should 
have  proved  so  disconcerting.  But  Felicity,  who 
knew  in  a  way  what  the  big  words  meant,  assured 
herself  that  if  keeping  a  poor  little  mouse  over- 
night was  any  want  of  conformity  unto  or  trans- 
gression of  the  law  of  God,  she'd  never  been 
told  so. 

She  was  so  thinking  as  she  knelt  while  Gran'ma 
prayed,  when  there  was  a  shrill  scream,  the  prayer 
came  abruptly  to  an  end,  and  she  jumped  up  to 
find  Gran'ma  shaking  her  voluminous,  crinolined 
skirts  excitedly  and  crying,  "  Scat !  Scat !  " 

For  a  moment  Felicity  was  scared;  her 
Gran'ma's  panic  was  so  very  real.  But  when  Mr. 
Mouse  had  been  shaken  down  and  had  made  good 
his  escape,  she  burst  into  gleeful  laughter  and 

38 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

laughed  until  she  cried — at  which  Gran'ma  was 
sufficiently  recovered  to  be  indignant. 

'  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked  the  culprit, 
sternly. 

"  Please,  Gran'ma,  it  was  so  funny!  " 

"  Everything  is  funny  to  you,  it  seems.  That's 
what  comes  of  association  with  a  buffoon." 

"What's  that?" 

"  A  buffoon  is  a  person  who  sees  nothing  but 
fun  in  the  misfortunes  of  others." 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  a  misfortune,  Gran'ma. 
I  was  just  thinking  Mr.  Mouse  must  be — be  so 
surprised.  He  must  'a'  thought  he  was  in  the 
bigges'  trap  in  the  world!  " 

"  Did  you  turn  him  loose  in  here?  " 

"  No'm;  I  was  keepin'  him  tight,  an'  he  must  'a' 
got  out." 

"  He  very  certainly  did,"  grimly.  "  But  what 
I  find  most  fault  with  is,  not  the  fright  you  gave 
me,  but  your  disrespectful  enjoyment  of  my  dis- 
tress. If  I  had  behaved  so  at  your  age,  I  should 
have  been  punished  terribly." 

"  Couldn't  you  ever  laugh?  " 

"  I  never  laughed  at  my.  elders — that's  sure." 

"  Mr.  Morton  says  God  likes  folks  to  laugh 
whenever  they  can." 

"  And  what,  if  you'll  tell  me,  does  Mr.  Morton 
know  about  God?  " 

"Oh,  a  lot!     He  told  me." 

39 


Felicity 


"  I  don't  doubt !  He'll  make  an  atheist  of  you 
before  he's  through.  I  can  see  now  that  you  dis- 
count your  church  and  home  teachings  by  what 
he  says,  and  I'll  have  no  more  of  it — this  traffick- 
ing with  evil-doers.  You'll  keep  away  from  that 
man  in  the  future — mark  my  words !  Amelia  may 
let  you  go  to  the  devil,  but  I'll  not  stand  by  and 
be  a  party  to  it.  I'm  your  keeper  before  God, 
whether  your  father  made  me  such  or  not.  You're 
my  son's  child,  and  I'll  save  your  soul  for  you  if 
I  can." 

Felicity  began  to  cry  and  Amelia  told  her  to 
go  upstairs.  Then  followed  a  stormy  session  about 
Felicity's  associations. 

"  I  told  you  all  this  would  come  of  letting  her 
act  in  plays  and  spend  her  time  with  mummers," 
said  Jane  Fergus. 

"  And  I  say  that's  all  antediluvian  bigotry," 
retorted  Amelia,  "  and  that  it's  a  great  privilege 
for  Felicity  to  have  the  companionship  of  a  man 
like  Mr.  Morton." 

"  It's  a  privilege  she'll  have  to  forego,  then," 
said  Jane,  "  as  long  as  she's  under  my  roof." 

Encouraged  by  her  rebellion  much  as  a  child 
is  encouraged  when  he  omits  his  prayers  and  meets 
no  cataclysmic  consequences,  Amelia  retreated  in 
good  order,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  mouth  as 
determinedly  set  as  her  mother's.  She  made  no 
reply  to  her  mother's  ultimatum;  she  wanted  the 

40 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

night  to  think  it  over.  But  she  was  not  cowed, 
and  she  knew  it. 

Upstairs,  Felicity  was  waiting  to  be  "  unbut- 
toned in  the  back  "  and  to  have  her  silken-fine, 
fair  hair  done  up  in  rag  curlers — hideously  uncom- 
fortable to  sleep  in,  but  considered  indispensable 
by  Amelia,  who  hoped  thus  to  correct  a  deficiency 
which  gave  her  sore  concern. 

When  the  bedtime  preparations  were  completed 
and  the  little,  night-gowned  figure  was  outstretched 
in  the  small  bed  beside  Amelia's  own,  the  woman 
who  was  finding  vent  thus  belatedly  for  her 
maternal  passion,  on  a  child  not  her  own,  sat  down 
in  the  dark  by  the  wide-open  window,  to  look  out 
into  the  summer  night — and  to  make  the  great 
decision  of  her  life. 

Amelia  Fergus  was  fifty-one.  Youth  was  long 
gone;  middle  age — middle  age  for  a  spinster  in 
those  days — was  nearly  gone ;  there  remained  only 
the  long,  slow  end.  Life,  in  so  far  as  it  held  that 
expectancy  which  makes  life  worth  living,  was  over 
for  her.  For  herself  she  could  entertain  no  more 
eagerness,  dream  no  more  dreams — could  antici- 
pate only  release.  And  that,  before  she  had  lived 
at  all !  No,  no !  It  must  not  be !  God  never 
mocked  one  so.  He  had  given  her  this  child,  this 
wonderful  child,  to  live  in;  they  would  realize 
together,  she  and  Felicity 

It  was  midnight  when  she  crept  to  bed  to  finish 

41 


Felicity 


a  restless  night.     An  hour  or  so  later  Felicity  sat 
up  in  her  little  bed  crying  out,  sleepily: 

"Aunt  Elie!     One's  out!" 

And  Amelia  reached  over  and  re-wound  the 
undone  curl.  Felicity  knew  by  bitter  experience 
how  unbecoming  was  the  effect  of  a  head  with 
many  bobbing  ringlets  and  one  long,  straight  wisp, 
and  oftener  than  not  she  woke  at  night  and  cried 
out  to  fend  off  such  a  mishap. 

Toward  morning  Amelia  fell  into  an  exhausted, 
dreamful  sleep  from  which  she  did  not  wake  when 
the  rising  bell  rang,  nor  until  Felicity  went  to 
her  and  shook  her  gently  by  the  shoulders.  To  be 
late  to  meals  in  Jane  Fergus's  house  was  a  car- 
dinal offence  even  the  child  had  a  dread  of  com- 
mitting. 

Recalled  to  that  pitiless  knowledge  of  her  situ- 
ation which  she  had  mercifully  forgotten  for  a 
while  in  sleep,  Amelia  sat  up,  conscious  of  keen 
regret  that  it  was  day  so  soon. 

Felicity  backed  up  to  have  her  little  petticoats 
buttoned  and  Amelia,  when  she  had  done  this,  took 
the  child  by  the  shoulders  and  wheeled  her  round, 
facing  her;  looking  deep  into  the  brown  eyes  as 
if  searching  for  an  answer  in  their  velvety  depths, 
she  asked: 

"Felicity,  would  you  like  to  be  an  actress?" 

"How  could  I?     I'm  so  little." 
'  They  have  little  girls,  sometimes.     Mr.  Mor- 
42 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

ton  has  little  girls  in  his  plays.  I  think  maybe  if 
we  ask  him  he'll  take  you  to  play  with  him  right 
now,  and  then  when  you're  grown  up  you  might 
be  celebrated  like  he  is." 

"  Is  he  cekrbated?" 

"  Yes,  very." 

"  What  is  celerbated?  " 

"  Celebrated !  It's  being  famous,  well  known — 
having  ever  and  ever  so  many  people  like  you, 
and  when  you  play  they  go  to  see  you  and  applaud, 
and  you  make  lots  of  money  and  travel  all  over 
the  world,  and  everywhere  you  go  people  know 
about  you  and  try  to  do  lovely  things  for  you, 
and  you  meet  other  celebrated  people — kings  and 
queens,  sometimes — and  great  writers  and  painters 
and  musicians;  and  everybody  envies  you  and 
wishes  they  were  in  your  place,  instead  of  feeling 
sorry  for  you  because  you've  never  called  your 
soul  your  own." 

Amelia  was  quite  breathless  when  she  finished 
her  description  of  celebrity — which  often  recurred 
to  Felicity  years  afterwards. 

"  I'd  like  that,"  said  Felicity.  Then,  lapsing 
into  a  quaint  Scotch  idiom  of  her  grandmother's, 
she  repeated,  "  I'd  like  it  fine!  " 

Amelia  laughed. 

"  Does  Mr.  Morton  know  kings  and  queens?  " 
Felicity  asked,  after  a  moment. 

u  I  don't  know,  but  some  actors  do.    They  play 

43 


Felicity 


before  kings  and  queens  and  the  kings  and  queens 
give  them  elegant  presents." 

"  I'd  like  that,"  said  Felicity,  jumping  up  and 
down  in  glee;  "  what  kind  o'  presents?  " 

"  Oh,  jewels,  mostly,  I  believe — diamonds  and 
things  like  that." 

Felicity  knew  about  diamonds,  because  some- 
times Amelia  unlocked  a  drawer  and  took  out 
Cecile's  little  trinkets  that  were  to  be  Felicity's 
some  day. 

They  were  still  talking  of  the  glittering  emolu- 
ments of  celebrity  when  Felicity  shrugged  her  wee 
shoulders,  made  scared,  solemn  eyes,  and  clapped 
both  hands  to  her  mouth. 

"What's  the  matter?"  questioned  Amelia, 
looking  furtively  behind  her;  but  no  one  was 
there. 

"  Gran'ma !  "  said  Felicity,  in  a  half-wicked, 
half-frightened  way.  She  looked  at  Amelia  and 
bit  her  lip.  "  Gran'ma  wouldn't  let  us." 

"  No,"  agreed  Amelia,  soberly,  "  she  wouldn't. 
But  would  you  do  it  anyway  ?  I  mean,  would  you 
want  to?  If  Gran'ma  wouldn't  let  you,  but  I 
would,  would  you  go?  " 

"  What  would  Gran'ma  do?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  bitterly,  "  turn  us  out,  I  sup- 
pose— certainly  refuse  to  speak  to  us  for  a  long, 
long  time." 

"  I  wouldn't  like  that." 

44 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

"  Neither  would  I,  but  if  you  want  to  do  great 
things  you  have  to  do  hard  things  first.  I've 
read  about  a  lot  of  people  who  did,  and  they 
always  had  to  make  a  hard  beginning;  there  was 
always  somebody  who  didn't  want  them  to  do  the 
thing  that  they  were  born  to  do." 

'  Would  Gran'ma  be  mad  for  keeps?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  she  might,  I  can't  tell." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  wicked  to  make  her  that 
mad?" 

If  Amelia  had  needed  anything  to  establish  her 
in  her  revolt  she  could  have  had  nothing  better 
than  this.  Old  wounds  broke  out  afresh  within 
her,  and  the  pain  of  them  drove  her  wild. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  commanded  the  wondering 
child.  They  had  been  dressing  as  they  talked,  but 
now  they  were  done. 

"  If  you  always  ask  yourself  what  your  Gran'ma 
will  think,  every  time  you  want  to  do  anything, 
you'll  never  get  anything  done — do  you  hear? 
you'll  never  get  anything  done !  That's  what  I 
did,  and  there  was  never  a  thing  I  wanted  to  do 
that  I  didn't  give  it  up  because  she'd  be  mad  if 
I  did  it.  Now,  you  sha'n't  begin  that  way.  Do 
you  understand?  You  sha'n't  do  it." 

*  Yes'm,"  said  Felicity,  thoroughly  awed  by  her 
aunt's  vehemence. 

;<  Well,  then,  give  me  your  hand  and  come  to 
breakfast;  there's  the  bell."  And  hand  in  hand  the 

45 


Felicity 


rebels  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  dining- 
room. 

Amelia  was  no  tactician.  It  was  not  in  her  to 
sit  at  meat  with  her  mother  in  all  apparent  filial- 
ness  while  harboring  the  determination  to  revolt. 
Last  night,  when  the  thing  was  a  temptation 
merely,  and  she  had  not  succumbed,  it  was  differ- 
ent. In  Amelia's  simple  code  she  was  entitled  to 
silence  until  she  had  decided,  and  then  she  was 
constrained  to  a  declaration. 

Jane  Fergus  was  sitting  at  a  window  in  the 
dining-room,  reading  her  morning  paper. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said,  without  looking  up. 
Jane  was  never  the  first  to  bridge  an  unpleas- 
antness. 

Amelia,  still  holding  Felicity  by  the  hand,  stood 
before  her  mother,  a  mixture  of  fear  and  defiance 
in  her  attitude. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  I  have  something  very — 
very  important  to  tell  you." 

Jane  Fergus  laid  down  her  paper.  There  was 
a  curious  ring  in  Amelia's  voice  that  somehow 
brought  instantly  to  mind  the  night  when  Robert 
had  announced  his  approaching  marriage. 

"Well?"  she  said;  and  waited. 

It  was  desperately  hard  to  begin,  but  Amelia 
had  done  with  faltering. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  feel  the  way  you  do  about 
Mr.  Morton,  but  he  thinks  Felicity  has  a  talent 

46 


Two  Decide  for  Celebrity 

for  acting;  he  says  its  development  should  begin 
now.  I  know  you  won't  approve,  but  I  can't  help 
it;  I'm  going  to  see  if  he  will  take  her  on  the  stage 
• — I  think  he  will.  If  he  does  it  will  be  a  wonder- 
ful chance  for  her.  I — she  wants  to  go  and  I — I 
think  we  ought  not  to  stand  in  her  way." 

Jane  Fergus  ignored  her  daughter  and  fixed  her 
searching  gaze  on  Felicity. 

"  Is  this  true?    Are  you  wanting  to  go?  " 

Felicity  looked  from  the  compressed  mouth  and 
keen  eyes  before  her,  to  the  compressed  mouth  and 
unflinching  eyes  above  her.  She  wanted  to  cry,  to 
fling  her  arms  about  her  Gran'ma's  neck  and  say 
she  would  never  be  an  actress — never !  But  some- 
thing in  Amelia's  face  restrained  her  and  she 
choked  down  the  lump  in  her  throat  and  answered : 

"  Yes'm." 

4  This  is  your  doing,"  said  Jane  Fergus,  turning 
to  Amelia.  '  To  satisfy  your  own  wicked  ambition 
you  traffic  this  child's  soul  to  the  devil.  I  wash 
my  hands  of  you.  Her  blood  be  upon  your  head !  " 

With  this  terrible  pronouncement  she  took  off 
her  spectacles,  folded  them  into  their  case,  and  left 
the  room. 

There  was  no  breakfast  eaten  in  the  Fergus 
household  that  morning. 


47 


CHAPTER    IV 


THE  NEW  LIFE  BEGINS WITHOUT  "  STRUTTING 


IT  was  an  odd  little  deputation  that  presented 
itself  at  Mrs.  Allston's  about  ten  o'clock  and 
asked  for  Mr.  Morton.  Felicity  usually  came 
blithely  on  her  visits  to  her  friend,  but  this  morn- 
ing she  reflected  Amelia's  almost  terrible  serious- 
ness and  partook  in  some  measure  of  her  fright,  so 
that  Phineas  at  once  scented  something  unusual. 

Without  more  strategy  in  leading  up  to  her 
business  than  she  had  used  a  little  earlier  in  break- 
ing with  her  mother,  Amelia  plunged  immediately 
into  the  middle  of  things. 

"  Mr.  Morton,"  she  began,  abruptly,  almost  as 
soon  as  they  had  said  good-morning,  "  will  you 
take  Felicity  and  make  an  actress  of  her?  " 

Phineas  was  staggered  for  a  moment.  Since 
learning  Felicity's  history  and  something  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  household  dominated  by  Jane 
Fergus,  he  had  abandoned  all  thought  of  Felicity 
as  a  possible  recruit  to  the  stage,  in  her  childhood 
at  least.  She  might  revolt  when  she  was  grown, 
he  thought,  and  the  dull  fret  of  Federal  Street 
had  worn  on  her  vivid  nature  oast  endurance ;  but 

48 


The  New  Life 

that  she  would  be  sharer  in  Amelia's  long-overdue 
assertion  of  her  rights,  he  had  never  reckoned  on. 
The  companionship  of  the  fanciful  little  creature 
had  been  very  welcome  to  him  in  his  convalescence, 
but  hardly  since  the  day  of  the  show  in  the  barn 
had  he  thought  of  her  as  a  child  of  the  road  he 
loved;  always  he  seemed  to  see  her  chained  to 
Federal  Street,  and  restless,  fluttering. 

He  knew — such  things  always  leak  out,  and  the 
more  quickly  and  surely  when  a  child  knows  them 
— that  Mrs.  Fergus  had  discountenanced,  all 
along,  Felicity's  association  with  him,  even  with 
his  grandsons,  and  her  participation  in  the  plays 
in  the  barn;  and  that  Amelia  had  set  her  authority 
against  her  mother's  wishes  and  overruled.  But 
that  the  middle-aged  woman,  growing  old  in  sub- 
jection, would  ever  take  such  a  step  as  this  was  so 
far  from  likelihood  that  he  had  never  for  a  mo- 
ment contemplated  it. 

So,  when  Amelia  asked  him  if  he  would  take 
Felicity  and  make  an  actress  of  her,  Phineas 
hesitated. 

"Are  you  sure  you  want  her  to  be  one?"  he 
asked. 

'  You  said  you  thought  she  could,"  Amelia 
answered,  "  and  I'm  sure  I  want  her  to  have  a 
chance  to  be  what  she  can;  it's  what  I  never  had, 
and  I  mean  that  she  shall  be  allowed  to  do  better 
with  her  life  than  I  have  done  with  mine." 

49 


Felicity 


"  But — pardon  me,  dear  lady — you  know  so  lit- 
tle about  the  life  of  the  theatre  and  what  it  entails. 
I  love  the  life,  and  am  glad  every  day  that  I  have 
lived  no  other.  But  I  kept  my  daughter  from  it 
because  I  loved  her  so — with  what  wisdom  I  am 
not  yet  able  to  say — and  I  shouldn't  encourage  one 
of  her  children  to  go  on  the  stage  unless  his  bent 
for  it  was  so  strong  we  couldn't  keep  him  off. 
Now,  I  couldn't  even  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the 
stage  for  Felicity,  here,  without  warning  you  that 
it's  a  hard  life,  a  perilous  life,  and  a  life  that'll  be 
terribly  strange  to  you  and  to  her.  If  you  were  to 
take  her  and  go  to  be  a  missionary  to  the  cannibals, 
you  would  hardly  find  yourselves  in  stranger  sur- 
roundings than  you'll  meet  with  in  stageland.  And 
you  may  stake  everything  on  this  cast  of  the  die 
and  find  after  all  that  she  lacks  some  quality  essen- 
tial in  an  actress.  It's  a  big  step,  dear  lady." 

"  I  know;  but  I  want  her  to  take  a  big  step  of 
some  sort  before  her  will  gets  so  paralyzed  she 
can't.  If  I  let  her  wait  until  she's  grown,  she'll 
have  learned  the  habit  of  submission  then — and 
if  the  old  dominance  is  gone,  she'll  find  a  new  one 
to  bow  to.  I  don't  care  if  she  does  have  to  fight ! 
Fighting's  better  than  brooding  and  regretting — 
anything's  better  than  lifelong  regretting!  " 

"  But  she  might  regret  the  very  life  you're 
taking  her  from !  How  would  you  bear  her  re- 
proaches then?  " 

50 


The  New  Life 

"  She  can  go  back  to  the  old  life  if  she  wants  to; 
but  if  she  stays  there  she'll  never  get  out." 

"  The  chances  of  her  getting  out  are  far,  far 
better  than  the  chances  of  her  getting  back,  dear 
lady.  There's  not  much  going  back  in  this  vaga- 
bond life  of  ours.  We  think,  sometimes,  we'd  like 
to,  but  we  soon  unlearn  all  the  home-biding  ways, 
and  it's  precious  hard  to  learn  them  again." 

"  But  whether  one  goes  or  stays,  one  must  take 
chances  of  regret,"  insisted  Amelia. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  if  you  please,  I'll  venture  on  Felicity's 
behalf." 

"  Good!  I  felt  it  was  only  square  to  warn  you, 
but  I  like  your  pluck.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  deter- 
mination like  yours  the  stage  would  have  been  a 
pretty  poor  institution,  for  I  don't  suppose  any  one 
ever  went  on  it  with  the  consent  of  his  family — 
not  even  if  they  were  actors  themselves.  I  ran 
away,  myself,  to  be  an  actor,  and  was  called  a  fool 
and  a  disgrace  to  my  family." 

"Oh,  did  you?" 

Phineas  smiled  tenderly  at  Amelia's  eagerness. 
'  There's  nothing  in  the  world,"  he  used  to  say, 
"  like  being  able  to  say  to  the  other  fellow,  '  I've 
been  through  this  same  hard  row  you're  travelling, 
and  I  give  you  my  word  for  it,  it  gets  easier  as  you 
get  farther  along.'  It's  worth  all  it  costs,  to  be 
able  to  say  that,  sometimes." 

51 


Felicity 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  reminiscently,  "  I  ran  away, 
when  I  was  twenty,  and  got  to  London,  somehow — 
my  folks  lived  in  Surrey,  and  I  was  bound  out 
there  to  a  bookseller.  But  some  strolling  players, 
with  a  taste  for  certain  high-flavored  old  books, 
used  to  frequent  our  place,  and  I  heard  them  talk, 
and  saw  them  act,  and  learned  from  them  some- 
thing of  actors'  haunts  and  ways — and  one  fine 
morning  there  was  an  apprentice  missing  from  his 
work  and  a  silly  coot  missing  from  his  good,  quiet 
home,  and  a  fair  distance  toward  London  on  the 
king's  highway  was  a  lad  trudging  along  what  he 
called  the  Road  to  Fame.  Ah,  well !  it  turned  out 
to  be  that,  or  something  like  it,  but  I  had  no  reason 
to  expect  that  it  would.  There  was  everything 
against  me — everything  but  a  mouth  as  wide  as 
my  face,  almost,  and  an  agile  pair  of  heels. 

"  I  went,  in  London,  to  that  Light  Horse  tavern, 
in  Orange  Court,  which  was  known  as  the  House 
of  Call  for  Actors,  and  there  fell  in  with  a  merry 
lot  of  jesters  who  belonged  to  the  stage  and  mocked 
the  pretensions  of  aspirants.  That  was  a  great 
place,  and  a  great  company.  It  was  there  I  used 
to  see  Charles  Lamb  and  some  of  his  cronies,  come 
to  enjoy  the  hilarious  fun.  And  it  was  there  that 
a  strolling  player  induced  me  to  pay  all  I  had  in  the 
world — five  pounds — for  the  privilege  of  playing 
Horatio  (fancy  me  Horatio !)  in  a  benefit  perform- 
ance he  was  getting  up.  The  benefit  was  an- 

52 


The  New  Life 

nounced  for  the  Widow  of  an  Officer,  but  if  there 
was  any  such  who  benefited  by  it,  she  must  have 
been  a  prospective  bride  of  my  stroller,  and  that 
was  a  doubtful  benefit  for  any  woman.  He  sold 
off  the  parts  to  stage-struck  hangers-on  of  the  Light 
Horse — all  but  Hamlet,  which  he  played  himself 
— and  we  actually  appeared  at  the  Haymarket. 
But  no  manager,  seeing  my  Horatio,  was  struck 
with  my  genius;  I  had  paid  all  my  capital  for  my 
little  hour  upon  the  stage,  and  that  seemed  likely 
to  be  the  last  as  well  as  the  first,  until  my  light 
heels  got  me  some  fame  among  the  tavern  folk, 
and  I  discovered  a  grotesque  value  in  my  mouth. 
It  would  take  a  week,  dear  lady,  to  tell  you  all 
the  things  that  befell  me  after  that — of  my  coming 
to  America,  my  years  with  the  Black  Face  boys 
— God  bless  'em! — and  all  the  rest.  Forty-five 
years,  almost,  I've  trod  the  boards,  and  if  there's 
any  vicissitude  possible  to  a  vagabond  player  that 
I  haven't  known,  I've  never  heard  of  it.  But 
there  isn't  a  day  of  it  I  regret — there  isn't  any 
man  on  earth  I'd  change  experiences  with. 

"  Now,  the  ordinary  thing  for  you  to  do  with 
Felicity  would  be  to  take  her  to  Boston  or  New 
York,  and  try  to  get  the  managers  of  resident  com- 
panies to  give  her  a  chance  when  they  put  on  a 
play  that  has  a  child  part.  That  would  give  you 
a  quiet  life,  not  necessarily  very  different  from 
what  you  know  now.  But  there's  no  dearth  of 

53 


Felicity- 
actors'  children  available  for  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  you'd  have  a  dickens  of  a  time  getting  a 
chance  at  it.  It  just  happens  that  I  am  one  of 
the  few,  the  very  few,  men  who  carry  a  company — 
that  is,  instead  of  travelling  with  only  my  stage 
manager  and  playing  with  stock  companies  here 
and  there,  I  take  all  my  own  players  with  me.  My 
plays  never  call  for  a  large  cast,  and  I  can  do  this, 
though  it's  a  lot  of  an  undertaking  and  meets  with 
a  good  deal  of  prejudice.  Jefferson  does  it,  and  I 
do  it,  and  there  are  two  or  three  others  who  do  it; 
everybody  else  adheres  to  the  old  system,  which  is 
more  comfortable,  perhaps,  for  the  support,  but 
more  precarious  for  the  star.  Now,  I'll  tell  you : 
my  company  begins  rehearsals  in  Boston  the  last 
Monday  in  this  month,  and  we  open  in  Providence 
on  the  1 6th  of  September.  You  get  Felicity  ready 
and  I'll  take  her  along;  I  always  have  a  child's 
part  in  my  plays,  and  I'll  take  personal  interest  in 
seeing  what  I  can  do  to  break  her  in." 

Amelia  looked  the  thanks  she  could  not  speak. 

"  What  is  *  ready  '?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  two  or  three  little  childish  white  dresses 
for  the  stage,  so  she'll  always  have  one  clean;  and 
whatever  you  want  her  to  have  for  fall  and  winter 
wear  off  the  stage.  You'd  better  stock  her  up 
pretty  well,  for  she'll  have  to  travel  in  the  care  of 
the  wardrobe  woman,  who  is  too  busy  to  have  much 
time  for  her." 

54 


The  New  Life 

Phineas  made  this  shot  after  having  taken  care- 
ful aim,  and  he  was  gratified  by  unmistakable  evi- 
dence that  it  had  gone  straight  to  the  mark. 
Amelia's  face  instantly  was  the  picture  of  despair. 

"  Where,"  she  faltered,  piteously,  "  where  am 
I  to  be?" 

Phineas  feigned  surprise.  "  Why,  I  really 
hadn't  thought,"  he  said,  "  but  Felicity's  part  will 
be  small  and  her  pay  will  not  be  nearly  enough  to 
cover  your  expenses  on  the  road.  The  wardrobe 
woman  in  my  company  has  not  much  to  do,  and 
she  is  always  hired  with  the  understanding  that 
she's  to  have  charge  of  any  child  or  children  in  the 
organization.  It's  a  job,  carrying  children,  but  I've 
had  too  many  catastrophes  trying  strange  ones." 

Amelia  seemed  to  be  turning  something  of  tre- 
mendous importance  over  in  her  mind. 

"What  else,"  she  asked  with  ill-concealed  pur- 
pose, "  does  the  wardrobe  woman  do?  " 

"  Sews,  mostly;  keeps  the  stage  costumes  in 
order  and  sees  that  they  are  properly  put  on  in 
the  case  of  the  minor  players." 

Narrowly,  from  under  half-closed  lids  which 
seemed  quite  unobserving,  Phineas  watched  the 
emotions  working  in  her  face. 

"  Could  I — couldn't  I  be  the  wardrobe  wo- 
man?" she  begged  eagerly.  Then,  as  if  to 
fend  off  the  denial  she  feared,  "  I  couldn't  let 
Felicity  go  out  of  my  care.  I  want  her  to  have  her 

55 


Felicity 


chance,  but  I  should  die  without  her — if  I  couldn't 
care  for  her.  I  didn't  know  how  you  managed 
things,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  letting  her  go  with- 
out me." 

There  was  a  quaver  in  her  voice  now,  and 
Phineas  had  no  armor  against  tears.  Although 
he  was  only  a  dozen  years  Amelia's  senior,  he  had 
seen  so  much  more  than  she,  lived  so  much  more 
variously,  that  he  felt  like  her  grandsire,  and  there 
was  a  grandfatherly  benevolence  in  his  touch  and 
in  his  tone  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
said: 

"  Well,  well !  we'll  see,  dear  lady,  we'll  see !  I'll 
have  to  communicate  with  my  business  manager 
and  see  if  he  has  a  wardrobe  woman  engaged. 
But  we'll  be  about  this  part  of  the  world  for  some 
weeks,  so  don't  you  worry  yet  about  giving  up 
your  little  girl — eh,  Felicity?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Felicity,  awed  beyond  the  power 
of  thinking  speech  but  answering  mechanically  as 
she  thought  she  was  expected  to. 

"  We  have  a  little  money,  Felicity  and  I," 
Amelia  explained,  "  but  it's  not  much,  and  I  don't 
know  if  any  of  it  could  be  made  available  just  now. 
Grandfather  McClintock,  in  Mississippi,  is  as  poor 
as  a  church  mouse,  after  the  war,  and  our  mills 
here  are  not  worth  what  they  were  once.  Felicity 
owns  her  father's  share  and  I  own  mine,  but  the 
whole  income  last  year — net  income,  I  mean — 

56 


The  New  Life 

was  only  about  three  thousand  dollars.  We  ought 
to  sell  and  let  the  mills  have  active,  man's  manage- 
ment, but  mother  can't  bear  to  think  of  the  Fergus 
mills  operated  by  strangers.  I  can  work,  though ! 
I  can  sew — I  can  do  anything  but  part  from 
Felicity!" 

Then  Felicity,  still  clinging,  as  when  she  came, 
to  Amelia's  hand,  sobbed  heart-brokenly. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  waitress  without  Aunt 
Elie!" 

"  You  sha'n't,  dear  child,  you  sha'n't,"  promised 
Phineas,  his  own  eyes  brimming. 

"  Mercy  me !  "  he  meditated,  blowing  his  nose 
vigorously  after  Amelia  and  Felicity  had  gone, 
"  seems  to  me  I  never  was  present  at  so  solemn  an 
embarkation.  I  feel  almost  as  excited  as  that  poor 
woman  does — more  excited  than  I  did  the  day  I 
ran  away  to  be  an  actor.  Blame  me !  I  was  too 
fool-young  then  to  know  what  I  was  doing,  and  it 
was  easy  to  run.  But  this  woman  feels  the  wrench 
to  the  limit,  and,  by  gad !  it's  tragic.  I  hope  the 
child's  worth  it !  " 

Amelia  went  home  in  a  state  of  mind  familiar 
to  all  who  have  lived  long  enough  to  learn  that 
pure  exultation  never  comes  after  youth's  unthink- 
ingness  is  past.  She  had  won  her  case,  the  heavy 
doors  of  her  prison-house  stood  open  for  her  at 
last,  and  the  wide,  wide  world  invited  her.  But 
already  she  was  so  desperately  homesick  for 

57 


Felicity 

the  old  familiar  frets,  so  compassionate  of  her 
mother's  suffering,  that  she  could  scarcely  see 
through  her  tears  the  outward-swinging  gates. 

She  was  in  her  room  when  she  saw  her  mother 
come  home  at  noon  from  the  mill;  Jane  Fergus 
always  spent  the  mornings  at  the  mill,  and  this 
day  of  wrath  made  no  exception.  It  was  cruelly 
hot,  this  blazing  August  noonday,  and  whether 
from  the  wilting  heat  or  from  other  causes,  Jane's 
large  figure  seemed  to  droop  pathetically.  She 
was  an  old  woman,  Amelia  reflected — past  three 
score  and  ten — and  she  had  suffered  much.  It  was 
hard,  bitterly  hard,  to  go  away  and  leave  her  all 
alone  in  the  chill  twilight  of  her  life. 

"  It's  not  worth  this  price,"  she  sobbed,  "  noth- 
ing's worth  this  price;  "  and  she  went  downstairs 
to  tell  her  mother  they  wouldn't  go. 

Jane  Fergus  had  been  to  her  room,  off  the  sit- 
ting-room, and  had  removed  her  widow's  bonnet 
and  black  henrietta-cloth  dress  (no  persuasion 
availed  to  make  her  appear  in  public  less  formally 
gowned)  and  now  wore  an  old  black  silk  skirt  and 
a  loose,  white  dimity  sacque.  Her  face  was  very 
red,  but  there  was  not  a  hair  ruffled  in  her  sleek 
coiffure.  She  looked  formidable  again,  in  her 
composure,  and  Amelia's  courage,  born  of  tender- 
ness, oozed  rapidly.  But  she  lost  no  time. 

"  Mother,"  she  began  abruptly,  "  I — we  are 
not  going — we've  decided  not  to  go." 

58 


•The  New  Life 

"  Why  not?  "  The  question  was  sharp,  passion- 
less, judicial.  Amelia  wavered. 

"  Why,  we — I — I  don't  think  we  ought  to,  if 
you  disapprove  so  much." 

"  You  never  were  imagining  for  one  moment 
I'd  approve?  " 

"  No,  mother." 

'  Then  how  do  you  find,  so  sudden,  my  disap- 
proving hinders  you?  " 

Amelia  was  silent,  and  her  mother,  scenting  a 
conciliation  that  was  not  defeat,  said  sharply: 

"  Don't  try  to  deceive  me !  I'd  as  lief  you  went 
now  as  when  my  poor  old  bones  are  rotting." 

It  was  such  a  bald  statement  of  the  very  reason- 
ing wherewith  Amelia  had  salved  the  smarting  of 
delay  that  she  started,  guiltily. 

"  D'ye  think,"  her  mother  went  on,  remorse- 
lessly, "  that  I  could  live  in  the  house  with  you  the 
remaining  years  of  my  life,  knowing  that  the 
minute  my  tongue  is  still  ye'll  be  away  to  your 
fleshpots  ?  Go  your  ways !  Ye've  nursed  rebellion 
again  me  these  many  years — d'ye  think  I've  not 
known  it? — now  you  can  go — and  no  coming 
back,  mind !  You  make  your  bed,  and  you  can  lie 
in  it." 

Phineas  was  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  comedians 
to  depart  from  the  old  standard  comedies  in  which 
there  were,  properly,  no  star  parts,  and  act  in  plays 

59 


Felicity 

specially  written  for  the  exploitation  of  such  a 
modern  spirit  as  he  exemplified.  He  had  been  a 
faithful  student  of  the  French  method  and  de- 
lighted in  perfect  ensemble  playing  so  much  that 
he  was  one  of  the  first  to  indulge  in  the  expense 
of  a  travelling  support,  but  he  contended  that  in 
the  most  perfect  picture  an  artist  always  concen- 
trates attention  on  some  one  point,  always  focuses 
on  a  central  figure,  always  intends  that  some  part 
shall  dominate,  and  the  others,  however  perfectly 
done,  shall  subordinate.  And  so,  believing  in  him- 
self as  a  superior  artist,  and  knowing  himself  to  be 
a  personality  the  public  liked  to  applaud,  he  chose 
his  plays  and  his  players,  as  he  said,  "  to  suit  his 
complexion." 

Another  of  his  theories  about  that  art  of  the 
drama  to  which  he  had  given  his  life  was  that  a 
majority  of  actors  are  spoiled  by  a  too-great  con- 
sciousness of  their  audiences  and  too-little  absorp- 
tion in  their  parts  and  in  the  play.  He  never  went 
so  far  as  to  contend  that  a  player  should  forget 
himself  in  his  part;  he  knew  the  dangers  of  that, 
both  for  the  individual  player  and  for  the  ensemble 
work  of  the  whole  cast.  But  he  hated  alike  playing 
to  the  boxes  and  playing  to  the  gallery,  and  be- 
lieved that  the  more  account  an  actor  took  of  his 
audience  the  worse  he  played. 

"  Of  course  you've  got  to  remember  there's  an 
audience  there,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "  and  direct 

60 


The  New  Life 

your  voice  so  it'll  reach  'em,  and  omit,  whenever 
possible,  to  turn  your  back  on  'em,  and  otherwise 
keep  in  mind  that  you're  a  paid  entertainer,  and 
not  soliloquizing.  But  more  people  go  on  the 
stage  because  they  want  to  preen  and  prance  for 
people  in  the  seats  than  go  on  because  they  believe 
they've  got  a  mimetic  gift,  and  that's  how  we  get 
so  much  silly  attitudinizing.  We  all  know  how 
abominably  a  child  acts  when  it  becomes  conscious 
of  being  watched,  and  most  actors  behave  worse. 
It's  the  essence  of  good  dramatic  training  to  learn 
how  to  be  conscious  but  never  to  seem  so." 

For  years  he  had  wrestled,  now  more,  now  less 
vainly,  with  people  he  played  with,  to  bring  them 
to  his  way  of  thinking.  Now,  in  his  ripe  age, 
when  he  inclined  to  exact  less  and  less  of  human 
nature  and  to  allow  more  and  more  for  its  essen- 
tial weaknesses,  he  believed  it  was  asking  too  much 
to  ask  any  but  a  born  mime  to  step  across  the 
footlights  and  not  strut  for  those  left  behind.  He 
had  worn  himself  weary  in  this  asking;  now  he  had 
a  new  plan  to  interest  him. 

Felicity  had  never  seen  a  play  and  had  no  notion 
of  the  theatre,  nor  of  acting  for  applause;  the  joy 
of  the  pretence  was  all  that  animated  her.  He 
was  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  experimenting 
with  her  and  revolved  in  his  mind  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  pleasant  schemes. 

Accordingly,  when  she  and  Amelia  had  estab- 
61 


Felicity 


lished  themselves  in  their  Boston  boarding-house, 
he  called  one  day,  before  rehearsals  had  begun, 
and  took  Felicity  for  a  walk  in  the  Common  and 
the  Public  Gardens. 

Up  and  down  the  broad  shaded  avenues  of  the 
good  old  Common  they  walked,  hand  clasped  in 
hand,  Felicity  skipping  a  little  now  and  then  as 
with  an  occasional  bubbling  over  of  the  pot  of  joy, 
as  he  told  her  story  after  story  about  events  these 
places  recalled.  Everything  was  a  story  to  Phin- 
eas,  and,  Englishman  though  he  was,  he  had  a 
great  enthusiasm  for  many  of  the  things  the  Com- 
mon calls  to  mind.  After  they  had  walked  until 
they  were  tired,  they  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  fed 
the  squirrels  and  petted  some  puppies  a  man  had 
for  sale.  Then  Felicity  begged: 

"  Tell  me  another  story,  please." 

And  he  began,  in  the  most  entrancing  fashion 
ever  devised,  "  Once  upon  a  time  " — and  told  her, 
without  intimating  what  it  was,  the  story  of  his 
new  play,  in  which  there  was  "  a  nice,  nice,  nice  old 
man,  just  like  me,  and  a  dear,  dearer,  dearest  little 
girl,  just  like  you." 

It  was  a  beautiful  story,  and  when  Phineas  asked 
how  she  would  like  to  play  she  was  that  little  girl, 
she  nodded  delightedly  at  him  and  said  she  would. 

;'  Well,  when  the  little  girl,  Amy,  hears  the 
strange  man  ask  her  Grandpa,  '  Was  there  a 
child?  '  she  runs  in  and  throws  her  arms  about  her 

62 


Thus  he  rehearsed  Felicity  in  her  first  part. 


The  New  Life 

Grandpa's  neck  and  cries,  '  Here  I  am,  Grandpa !  ' 
and  Grandpa  says,  '  Here  you  are,  dear  little  girl  1  ' 
and  holds  you  like  this,  while  he  talks  to  the  man 
and  strokes  your  curls " 

"  Mine  are  not  really  curly,"  interrupted  Fe- 
licity, with  painful  honesty,  "  only  rag  curls  what 
Aunt  Elie  makes." 

Phineas  smiled.  "  Well,  lots  of  things  on  the 
stage  aren't  any  realer.  And,  as  I  was  saying, 
while  Grandpa  strokes  your  curls  you  don't  say 
a  word.  Then  he  gets  into  an  argument " 

"What's  that?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  you've  never  had  any  at  your 
house — that  it  was  no  use,"  he  answered,  chuckling. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Felicity,  gravely,  not  in  the 
least  knowing  what  an  argument  was  or  how  one 
got  in  it  or  what  one  did  while  in,  "  it  wouldn't 
have  been  any  use  to  us;  we  " — with  sudden  inspi- 
ration— "  we  didn't  keep  any  horse." 

Phineas  laughed  so  loudly  at  this  as  to  attract 
the  attention  of  some  passers-by,  and  here  and  there 
among  them  one  nudged  another  and  whispered. 
But  Phineas  Morton  was  used  to  that. 

Thus  he  rehearsed  Felicity  in  her  first  part — 
now  in  the  August  sunshine  on  the  Boston  Com- 
mon, now  in  the  boarding-house  parlor.  Finally, 
when  the  company  was  well  under  way  with  its 
rehearsals,  she  went  several  times  to  the  theatre 
and  learned  her  entrances  and  exits  and  got 

63 


Felicity 


acquainted  with  her  fellow-players.  There  was 
so  much  to  see,  so  much  to  wonder  at,  on  the  occa- 
sions of  these  visits  to  the  big  stage,  that  her 
thoughts  never  once  strayed  across  the  cold  foot- 
lights to  the  interminable  rows  of  shrouded  chairs 
which  would  hold  their  thousands  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  come  to  see  her,  ere  her  day  on  the 
stage  was  done. 

The  stage  manager  was  more  than  dubious 
about  this  experiment  of  The  Old  Man,  as  they 
all  called  him. 

"  Ten  to  one,  when  she  sees  the  audience  she'll 
walk  right  on  over  the  footlights,"  he  said,  "  or 
turn  and  flee  for  the  wings." 

But  The  Old  Man  was  willing  to  risk  it,  and 
events  proved  him  justified.  In  Providence,  on  the 
first  night,  Felicity  stood  in  the  wings  holding  tight 
to  Amelia's  hand  until  she  heard  her  cue,  then  ran 
on  crying  her  little  lines  as  gayly  as  if  only  Phineas 
were  on  the  stage. 

The  applause  with  which  an  audience  invariably 
greets  a  child  performer  startled  her  for  an  instant, 
but  Morton  caught  her  as  he  had  so  often  done  in 
their  play-times  and  swung  her  high  above  his  head 
in  gleeful  greeting,  so  that  she  forgot  the  strange 
sound  of  hands  clapping  and  laughed  in  genuine 
childish  delight  to  be  tossed  so  high. 

Felicity's  debut  was  accomplished,  her  new  life 
was  begun. 

64 


CHAPTER    V 

THE     NEW     LIFE     GROWS     TIRESOME,      WITHOUT 
"  STRUTTING  " 

"  T  SEE,"  said  Frances  Allston,  reading  from  the 
J.  Lowell  Citizen,  "  that  '  Phineas  Morton 
opened  his  annual  tour  in  Providence  last  night, 
playing,  as  always,  to  a  packed  and  enthusiastic 
house.  The  star  was  in  fine  form,  and  his  new 
play,  The  Return,  is  admirably  adapted  to  tfie 
exploitation  of  those  charming  talents  which  have 
made  Mr.  Morton  one  of  the  best  loved  men  on 
the  American  stage.'  Now,  is  there  another  actor 
in  the  world,  do  you  suppose,  who  is  so  unfail- 
ingly spoken  of  in  terms  of  affection  as  father?  I 
think  he  ought  to  be  the  proudest  and  happiest  man 
alive." 

'  You've  heard  him  say,  often  enough,  how  far 
from  filling  fame  is."  Herbert  Allston  would 
not  have  been  human  had  he  felt  no  envy  of  the 
admiration  Frances  lavished  on  her  father.  Him- 
self a  quiet,  substantial  business  man  about  whose 
charms  or  whose  achievements  no  one  could  ever 
have  expatiated,  he  had  moments  of  bitter  resent- 
ment that  so  much  fuss  should  be  made  about 

65 


Felicity 

attractiveness  and  geniality  and  so  little  about 
integrity  and  diligence.  He  knew  himself  for  a 
man  infinitely  more  reliable  than  his  father-in-law, 
and  innocent  of  a  score  of  big  and  little  failings 
which  marked  that  "prince  of  vagabonds";  but 
the  world,  it  seemed,  and  Frances  in  particular, 
took  small  account  of  what  you  resisted  and  exag- 
gerated account  of  the  pleasure  you  gave  it.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  people  who  didn't  know 
any  better  about  the  obverse  side  of  celebrity,  but 
Frances  ought  to  have  a  better  opinion  of  stability. 
If  she  hadn't — well,  a  woman  shouldn't  marry  a 
man  unless  she  admired  and  desired  his  particular 
gifts  above  those  of  any  one  else ! 

But  Frances,  who  followed  with  intense  inter- 
est every  step  in  her  father's  career  and  lavished 
on  him  an  adoring  love  few  women  can  feel  for 
two  men,  was  quite  oblivious  to  the  wistfulness 
of  that  plain  man,  her  husband. 

"  Fame,"  she  retorted,  cheerily  enough,  "  may 
not  be  very  filling  to  those  that  earn  it,  but  it's 
a  heap  of  satisfaction  to  those  that  love  them.  I 
dare  say  father's  fame  is  more  joy  to  me  than  it  is 
to  him,  and  I'm  sure  mother  was  always  prouder 
of  him  than  any  human  being  could  be  of  himself. 
Father  always  says  no  one  can  be  proud  of  himself, 
because  those  who  do  things  are  so  painfully  con- 
scious of  the  distance  between  what  they  have  done 
and  what  they  tried  to  do." 

66 


The  New  Life  Grows  Tiresome 

"  Does  it  say  anything  about  Felicity?  "  asked 
Morton,  indicating  the  paper. 

His  mother  laughed.  "  Strangely  enough,  not 
a  word."  Then,  "  I  hope  Jane  Fergus  sees  this," 
she  said,  resentfully  remembering  how  Jane  had 
considered  Phineas  unfit  for  Felicity's  companion- 
ship. 

Over  in  the  Fergus  house  was  a  strange  situ- 
ation :  Jane  Fergus  was  there  alone  with  black 
Zilianne,  whose  heart  had  broken  with  hers  at 
the  departure  of  the  twain  seeking  opportunity. 
Every  effort  to  excuse  the  rebels  that  poor  Zilly 
made,  Jane  sternly  silenced — but  it  was  her  one 
comfort  that  Zilly  continued  to  make  them. 

"  I  hears,"  said  Zilly,  "  dat  mos'  ob  de  slabes 
dat  Abe  Linkum  made  inter  free  niggers  was  glad 
ter  run  erway  but  heap  gladder  ter  run  back  agin. 
If  you-all  is  fotch  up  er  slabe,  hit's  mighty  hard  ter 
enjy  bein'  er  free  nigger.  Dey'll  come  back,  shore 
nuff,"  she  would  conclude,  with  absolute  innocence 
of  irony. 

"  I  don't  want  them  back,"  Jane  Fergus  would 
declare,  firmly. 

'  Yes,  you  does,  Ole  Miss,  yes,  you  does,"  Zilly 
insisted,  "you  cain't  fool  God  thataway!  He 
done  know  you  better'n  you  know  yo'se'f,  an'  He 
gwine  ter  bring  'em  back  an'  mek  'em  eat  yo'  fat 
calf  like  He  say." 

Jane  did  see  the  Lowell  Citizen — and  put  it  in 

67 


Felicity 


the  stove.  She  saw,  too,  a  Boston  paper  of  three 
weeks'  later  date,  containing  a  column  account  of 
the  metropolitan  opening  and  granting  a  line  to 
Felicity  Fergus,  "  who,  as  the  child,  Amy,  was 
winsome." 

That  line  made  a  profounder  impression  on  the 
Allston  boys  than  all  they  had  ever  seen  in  print 
about  their  grandfather.  Celebrity  seemed  the 
inevitable  thing  for  him,  but  when  Felicity  had 
actually  got  her  name  in  the  paper  it  made  them 
feel  that  they  had  been  very  close  to  greatness. 

The  following  Saturday  they  were  taken  in  to 
Boston  "  to  see  Felicity  act  "  as  they  persisted 
in  saying.  And,  sitting  with  their  mother  in  a 
stage  box,  they  were  only  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  calling  out  to  Felicity,  when  she  came  run- 
ning on. 

After  the  matinee  Grandfather  gave  a  party,  a 
stage  tea-party  he  called  it,  and  had  a  beautiful 
supper  sent  over  from  the  Parker  House  and 
served  on  the  stage — set  with  a  country  door-yard 
scene  for  the  first  act. 

Then  the  boys  heard  how  Felicity  "  liked  to 
act  " — which  was  none  too  well,  already — and 
Amelia  plied  Frances  with  questions  about  Jane 
Fergus,  concerning  whom  Mrs.  Allston  could  only 
report  that  she  seemed  to  be  well  and  that  it  was 
said  she  never  mentioned  the  seceders  to  any  one  in 
Millville. 

68 


The  New  Life  Grows  Tiresome 

The  boys  told  Felicity  how  they  had  tried  to  give 
plays  without  her,  and  failed;  how,  after  rejecting 
all  those  plays  wherein  she  had  been  the  star,  they 
had  settled  upon  one  that  called  for  very  light 
feminine  support:  "  Settlers  Crossing  the  Western 
Plains."  This  required  Indians,  "  horses,"  a  set- 
tler and  his  family,  an  express  wagon,  and  a  brave 
scout.  No  one,  needless  to  say,  wished  to  be  the 
horses,  and  no  one  was  anxious,  to  say  the  least, 
to  be  the  settler.  Even  the  scout's  role  was  appor- 
tioned with  some  difficulty,  so  great  was  the  desire 
to  be  an  Indian.  But,  alas !  these  troubles  were  as 
nothing  when  they  came  to  look  for  a  girl  who 
would  trust  herself  and  her  family  of  dolls  in 
Morton's  express  wagon  while  Indians  attacked  her 
and  the  horses  pranced  in  fright  and  the  brave 
scout,  riding  on  a  stick  bronco,  came  galloping  up 
to  aid  her  husband's  defence.  No  use  to  tell  those 
timorous  little  Sarahs  and  Sophias  and  Harriets 
and  Emilys  who  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  that 
"  Felicity  would  have  been  it !  "  They  were 
stolidly  unmoved  in  their  determination  not  to  be 
"  tommyhawked  "  and  as  no  boy  would  take  a 
matronly  part,  the  whole  thing  had  to  be  aban- 
doned in  favor  of  a  battle  piece  with  scouts  and 
Indians  only.  It  was  a  significant  thing,  by  the 
way,  that  none  of  the  battles  of  the  past  few  years 
was  ever  re- fought  in  Millville,  where,  though  any 
boy  would  gladly  "  be "  a  screaming,  scalping 

69 


Felicity 


Indian,  no  boy  would  consent  for  a  moment  to 
"  be  "  a  gray-clad  Confederate. 

Phineas  was  much  interested  in  the  boys'  account 
of  this  dramatic  endeavor,  and  more  interested 
to  note  its  effect  on  Felicity,  who  already  was 
tired  of  the  routine  and  the  exactions  of  her  new 
life. 

She  was  tired  of  saying  her  same  little  lines 
over  and  over  and  doing  always  the  same  identical 
things  and  no  others  under  penalty.  She  missed 
childish  companionship  and  would  have  been  glad, 
many  a  time,  to  go  back  to  Federal  Street  and  play 
settler's  wife  or  cannibals  en  masse  or  any  other 
role,  in  the  Allston  barn. 

She  admitted  as  much  to  Phineas,  after  the  boys 
were  gone. 

"  But  just  think  how  they  envied  you,"  ventured 
Phineas,  craftily,  "  how  grand  they  think  it  is  to 
play  in  a  real  play  as  you  do." 

"  Do  they?"  eagerly. 

There  was  that  in  her  manner  which  made  Phin- 
eas smile  whimsically.  "Alas,  for  the  best  laid 
philosophies !  "  he  said,  "  human  nature's  stronger 
than  'em  all." 

"  Sir?  "  said  Felicity,  wonderingly. 

;'  Would  you  like  to  go  back  to  Millville  to 
stay?  "  he  asked,  as  if  that  were  a  re-wording  of 
his  unintelligible  remark. 

"  No,  sir,"  promptly,  "  not  to  stay — only  for 
70 


The  New  Life  Grows  Tiresome 

sometimes,  when  I'm  lonesome.  But  I  s'pose  I 
can't  if  I  want  to  be  a  waitress." 

Phineas  shook  his  head  and  looked  at  her  with 
that  kind  of  smile  he  had  which  made  one  hesitate 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  "  Already,  poor  baby," 
he  murmured,  "  already !  " 

Felicity  really  had  a  good  deal  to  stand. 
Amelia's  ambition  for  her  was  inexorable  and  her 
ways,  touching  health,  looks,  and  education,  were 
rigorous. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  so  fine !  "  Felicity  wailed, 
daily,  in  protest.  But  Amelia  said,  "  You  have  to 
be !  "  as  if  that  settled  it — which  indeed  it  did. 
She  had  become  a  past-mistress  of  beauty  secrets 
and  Felicity  was  the  object  of  all  her  experiments. 
Every  mouthful  the  child  ate,  she  watched  closely 
and  at  least  thrice  daily  would  pounce  on  some 
forbidden  morsel  half  way  to  Felicity's  mouth  on 
fork  or  spoon  or  in  her  fingers.  "  That'll  ruin 
your  teeth!"  she'd  pronounce  against  one;  and 
'  That'll  spoil  your  complexion !  "  she'd  declare 
against  another. 

She  had  abandoned  the  curling-rags  and  taken, 
instead,  to  making  the  child's  hair  more  and  more 
silky,  since  it  refused  to  be  curly.  It  seemed  to 
Felicity  that  she  spent  hours,  every  day,  having  her 
hair  brushed ;  that  she  never  wanted  to  do  anything 
that  she  was  not  called  away  to  scrub  valiantly  at 
her  teeth  or  to  suffer  some  other  species  of  boredom 

71 


Felicity 


in  the  interests  of  her  good  looks.  There  was 
no  keeping  pace  with  Amelia's  zeal  for  her  and  she 
fretted  a  good  deal  under  the  constraint  of  trying; 
so  that  poor  Amelia  had  a  heavy  burden  to  bear, 
what  with  her  soreness  of  heart  about  her  mother, 
and  her  dislike  of  the  roving  life,  and  Felicity's 
resentment  of  the  measures  taken,  at  so  great  cost, 
in  her  behalf. 

In  December  they  reached  New  York,  where 
they  could  settle  down,  as  the  engagement  was  to 
be  a  long  one.  Amelia  and  Felicity  found  a  com- 
fortable boarding  place  not  far  from  Madison 
Square  and  thither,  every  day,  the  child  was  taken 
for  exercise  which,  with  her,  had  come  to  take  the 
place  of  romping,  childish  play.  Amelia  bought 
her  a  "  hoople  "  and  taught  her  to  roll  it  up  and 
down  the  smooth  walks  while  she  sat  by  and  kept 
the  child  in  sight.  But  Felicity,  after  the  novelty 
wore  off,  hated  her  hoople  as  the  lonely  child  hates 
any  kind  of  solitary  sport  and  refused  to  roll  it 
save  under  compulsion. 

Phineas,  appealed  to,  said  she  must  have  some 
childish  companionship.  "  Try  to  find  some  lit- 
tle girl  who  will  be  frankly  impressed  with  Felic- 
ity's '  acting,'  "  he  said,  "  she  needs  the  stimulus 
of  envy,  poor  baby." 

"  I  was  all  wrong  about  strutting,"  he  confided 
to  George  Holland  one  day  when  he  met  that  fine 
comedian  and  stepped  aside  with  him  for  a  soul- 

72 


The  New  Life  Grows  Tiresome 

swopping.  "Strut?"  he  went  on,  whimsically, 
"  why,  we  all  strut,  on  and  off  the  boards — for 
our  other  selves,  if  we  have  no  better  audience.  I 
guess  it's  the  chance  for  strutting  for  some  one  that 
keeps  most  of  us  up  and  doing;  there  must  always 
be  somebody  who  seems  impressed — or  we  fall  to 
thinking  about  quietuses  and  bare  bodkins." 

As  much  interested  in  this  as  he  had  been,  five 
months  ago,  in  the  opposite  theory,  Phineas  began 
to  devote  himself  to  Felicity's  need  of  applause. 
The  hand-clapping  of  strangers  across  the  foot- 
lights meant  nothing  to  her.  Neither  did  •  the 
kindly  comment  of  other  actor-folk  she  met  when 
with  him.  What  she  needed  was  the  wide-eyed, 
open-mouthed  envy  of  another  little  girl,  Phineas 
decided. 

Accordingly,  he  took  her  to  Madison  Square  one 
afternoon  and,  singling  out  a  girl  he  thought  the 
likeliest,  he  soon  had  her  engaged  in  a  race  around 
the  Square  with  Felicity — a  hoople-chasing  race, 
from  which  they  returned  flushed,  breathless,  and 
happy. 

Then  Phineas  told  them  a  story,  while  they 
rested  on  the  bench  beside  him,  one  on  either  side. 
And  he  wrote  a  pass  for  the  little  girl  and  her 
mother  so  she  could  go,  Saturday  afternoon,  to  see 
Felicity  act. 

After  that,  he  could  leave  the  affair  to  itself — 
with  proper  cautioning  of  Amelia  not  to  spoil  it. 

73 


Felicity 

Amelia,  poor  soul,  was  delighted  to  see  how 
Felicity  throve  on  this  new  happiness.  But  alas! 
the  new  friend  had  no  sooner  become  satisfyingly 
familiar  than  she  became  a  dissatisfying  criterion. 

"  Ella  don't  have  to  do  this !  "  wailed  Felicity, 
when  she  was  summoned  from  her  doll  play  to  have 
her  hair  brushed  or  to  take  a  nap. 

"  *  Doesn't,'  not  '  don't,'  "  corrected  Aunt  Elie. 

"  Ella  don't  have  to  say  doesn't,"  pleaded 
Felicity. 

"  Ella  doesn't  play  with  Mr.  Morton  and  have 
all  the  little  girls  in  the  theatre  look  at  her  and  say 
how  pretty  her  hair  is  and  how  they  wish  theirs 
was  like  that,"  said  Amelia — who  had  been 
coached  to  good  purpose. 

"  Do  they  say  my  hair's  pretty?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know;  but  you  want  them  to, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care !    I  can't  hear  them  if  they  do." 

"  No;  but  if  you  don't  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
look  as  well  as  you  can,  and  study  all  the  things 
you're  told  to  study,  you  can't  be  an  actress.  Do 
you  want  to  stop  trying,  and  go  back  to  Millville, 
and  grow  up  to  be  plain  and  old  like  I  am,  and  die 
without  having  amounted  to  anything  in  the 
world?" 

"  No'm." 

'*  Well,  then,  there  are  no  two  ways  about  it. 
If  you  want  to  have  things  that  are  worth  while, 

74 


The  New  Life  Grows  Tiresome 

you've  got  to  work  for  them,  and  give  up  other 
things.  It  seems  to  me  you're  a  big  enough  girl 
to  understand  that — aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Felicity. 

And  Phineas,  when  this  was  reported  to  him, 
looked  searchingly  at  Amelia,  with  a  look  she  could 
not  understand. 

"  I  wonder  when  anybody  gets  that  '  big,'  "  he 
ruminated,  after  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  COMEDIENNE 

WITH  such  mild  misgivings  as  his  optimistic 
nature  was  capable  of,  Phineas  watched 
Amelia's  anxious  hovering.  Several  times  he 
remonstrated,  whimsically,  but  to  no  purpose. 
Then  he  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable,  know- 
ing that  a  change  was  imminent  in  the  near  future 
and  trusting  to  luck  and  to  his  persuasive  powers 
at  the  moment  to  turn  it  to  the  child's  advantage. 

After  two  years  on  the  stage  Felicity  had  begun 
to  lengthen  out  to  that  spindling  awkwardness 
which  promised  well  for  the  future  but  made  her 
impossible  for  child  parts.  When  this  time  came 
Phineas  persuaded  Amelia  to  put  the  child  in  a 
boarding-school  in  western  Massachusetts. 

"  You've  kept  her  too  close,"  he  said.  "  She 
must  have  more  independent  contact  with  her  kind. 
A  watched  pot  never  boils,  they  say,  and  a  child 
that's  watched  too  closely  never  boils  over  as  it 
should.  We  can't  begin  to  educate  Felicity  until 
she's  been  turned  loose  and  we've  seen  what  her 
propensities  are." 

76 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

Amelia  fought  this  at  first,  until  Phineas 
allowed  himself  a  clinching  argument. 

"  Dear  lady,"  he  said,  laying  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder  and  shaking  her  gently  by  it,  "  what 
makes  you  think  your  dominance  is  good  for  the 
child,  when  you  are  so  sure  the  old  dominance  was 
bad  for  her?  You  said  you  wanted  to  give  her  her 
chance.  I  say  you're  not  doing  it!  " 

That  settled  the  matter,  and  to  school  Felicity 
went,  while  Amelia  took  a  small  house  in  Salem 
and  acquired  a  cat,  and  sat  down  by  her  swept  and 
lonely  hearth  to  wait  the  passing  of  the  years  until 
Felicity  should  be  with  her  again. 

The  Hilldale  School  for  Girls  was  in  the  Berk- 
shires;  it  was  in  charge  of  the  Reverend  Henry 
Candee  Tutwiler,  of  the  Congregational  persua- 
sion, who  was  ably  seconded  by  Mrs.  Tutwiler, 
head  of  the  department  of  consolation  and  cheer- 
ing advice,  and  by  a  corps  of  teachers,  exclusively 
feminine  and  inclined  to  be  middle-aged. 

Felicity  was  looked  upon  with  no  little  suspicion 
when  her  application  for  entrance  was  filed.  The 
stage  was  rank  in  the  nostrils  of  the  Reverend  Tut- 
wiler, and  he  feared,  moreover,  that  a  majority 
of  his  patrons  would  be  incensed  if  their  offspring 
were  brought  in  contact  with  a  child  of  the  theatre. 

Amelia  was  enraged,  and  Felicity  would  never 
have  gone  to  the  Hilldale  School  for  Girls  had 
not  the  Reverend  Tutwiler  weakened  when  he 

77 


Felicity 


heard  of  Felicity's  strictly  orthodox  upbringing, 
and  had  not  Amelia  weakened  when  it  was  pointed 
out  to  her — not  by  the  Reverend  Tutwiler — that 
girls'  schools  inspired  by  a  large  world-wisdom 
and  presided  over  by  a  fine  catholic  spirit,  were 
so  scarce  that  if  she  insisted  on  such  an  one,  Felicity 
bade  fair  to  live  and  die  uneducated. 

So,  early  in  September  of  '71,  Felicity  being  in 
her  eleventh  year,  Amelia  took  her  to  Hilldale  and 
left  her;  and  that  night  in  her  Salem  home  where 
she  arrived,  unutterably  weary  and  heart-sick, 
about  eleven  o'clock,  Amelia  Fergus  for  the  first 
time  since  Cecile  Fergus  died  went  to  sleep  with- 
out Felicity  beside  her — and  of  all  the  hard  things 
she  had  lived  through,  that  was  the  hardest. 

Nor  did  the  separation  grow  one  whit  easier  as 
the  days  went  by.  It  seemed  to  Amelia  that  the 
ache  of  her  desire  was  almost  physical,  as  if  the 
very  nerves  of  her  body  cried  out  hungrily  for  the 
child's  presence. 

Every  month  she  went  to  spend  a  Saturday  and 
Sunday  with  Felicity,  but  the  intervals  between 
seemed  interminable  and  vacant  of  diversion,  let 
alone  satisfaction;  they  were  great  voids,  marked 
only  by  Felicity's  letters. 

"  Dear,  darling,  preshus  Aunt  Elie,"  the  first 
one  read,  "  I  perfecly  abbominate  this  place.  You 
ought  to  see  what  they  call  appel  sauce  it  is  pieces 

78 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

of  appel  floting  a  round  in  swetish  water.  When 
anything  is  the  matter  with  you  Mrs.  Tutwiler 
comes  and  says  its  nothing  and  tells  you  how  many 
things  has  been  the  matter  with  her  and  Mr.  Tut- 
wiler and  how  brave  they  allways  were.  Ive  cried 
every  night  since  you  left  me  hear  and  Mrs.  Tut- 
wiler says  when  she  was  my  age  she  cried  becaus 
their  was  no  school  for  her  to  go  to.  I  don't  see 
why  she  tells  me  such  things  becaus  I  dont  beleave 
them.  Can't  you  write  them  a  letter  for  me  not 
to  learn  arithmetick  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  it. 
'  Your  darling  child, 

"  FELICITY  FERGUS." 

"  P.  S. — Mrs.  Tutwiler  says  is  Felicity  all  the 
name  youve  got.  I'm  glad  none  of  my  name  is 
Tutwiler." 

Gradually,  however,  the  joys  of  companionship 
began  to  balance  Mrs.  Tutwiler  and  the  "  appel 
sauce." 

'  Thear  is  a  girl  hear  named  Rosalie  Beech  she 
has  seen  me  act,"  said  the  second  letter,  "  she  is  a 
very  nice  girl.  Some  of  the  girls  seam  awful  stupid 
they  know  thear  lessons  but  they  never  been  any 
place.  They  think  I'm  wonderfull  becaus  Ive 
been  so  many  places.  They  havent  read  much 
either  their  is  a  big  girl  that  never  heard  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  she  says  she  ain't  had  Scotch  histry 

79 


Felicity 

yet  what  do  you  think  of  that?  "  Letter  number 
three  was  superbly  sarcastic.  "  It  seams,"  this 
letter  read,  "  that  its  kind  of  a  crime  to  laugh 
hear.  Im  being  kept  in  my  room  this  whole  lovely 
long  Saturday  becaus  I  laughed  last  night.  You 
see  Fridays  we  have  a  funny  thing  thats  called  the 
elegunt  deportmunt  class  we  ware  our  best  dresses 
I  wore  my  pink  nunsvaleing  and  have  a  kind  of 
play  although  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tutwiler  do  not 
aprove  of  plays.  The  kind  of  play  we  had  was 
that  Mr.  Tutwiler  was  the  president  of  U.  S.  and 
Mrs.  Tutwiler  was  Mrs.  Grant  and  the  teachers 
was  cabinut  ladys  and  we  had  to  go  in  and  act  like 
we  was  at  the  white  House  it  was  awfull  funny. 
Mr.  Tutwiler  didnt  do  right  at  all  he  called  me 
madam  so  grand  at  least  I  guess  he  thought  it  was 
grand  and  I  told  him  when  I  was  at  the  real  white 
House  the  presidunt  Grant  called  me  chicken. 
Mrs.  Tutwiler  was  so  funny  I  nearly  died  laugh- 
ing and  just  for  that  I  got  sent  to  my  room  to  stay 
till  Sunday.  I  dont  see  how  I  can  ever  stay  in  a 
school  whear  its  a  crime  to  laugh.  When  I  go 
home  111  show  you  how  they  did  and  see  if  you 
dont  think  its  awfull  funny." 

Amelia  sent  this  letter  to  Phineas,  who  laughed 
over  it  till  he  cried.  He  was  to  be  in  Philadelphia 
at  the  holiday  time  and  he  invited  Amelia  to  bring 
Felicity  and  join  him  there. 

The  company  had  Christmas  dinner,  as  usual, 
80 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

on  the  stage  after  the  matinee,  and  tables  were 
spread  for  "  all  hands  "  from  Phineas  to  the  scene- 
shifters  and  scrubwomen;  and  that  there  be  no  feel- 
ing of  caste  on  this  happy  day  commemorating  a 
lowly  birth,  they  drew  dinner  partners  by  lot  and 
were  apportioned  to  the  several  tables  by  the  color 
of  their  flower  favors. 

Phineas  was  in  his  element.  Like  all  great 
comedians  of  all  times,  in  whatever  branch  of  art, 
he  was  essentially  and  splendidly  democratic.  The 
world  has  never  loved  those  who  laugh  at  it,  but 
to  those  who  laugh  with  it  it  seldom  refuses  a  palm. 
The  mind  that  laughs  at  the  world  is  aloof  from 
the  human  comedy,  an  aristocrat  in  effect  whatever 
its  actual  principles.  The  mind  that  laughs  with 
the  world  must  needs  be  of  the  world,  touched  with 
the  world's  failings,  spurred  with  the  world's 
desires. 

Phineas's  was  such  a  mind  and  the  democracy 
of  the  Christmas  dinner  was  therefore  no  sham 
democracy,  for  the  occasion  only  and  like  all 
seldom-worn  manners  ill-fitting  and  unmanageable. 
It  was  the  kind  of  feast  one  never  forgot  though 
he  lived  to  set  ten  thousand  scenes  or  to  eat  dinner 
with  all  the  world's  celebrities. 

When  the  last  course  was  finished  and  the  cigars 
were  lighted,  there  were  loud  calls  for  the  host, 
and  deafening  applause  greeted  him  when  he  rose 
to  answer  the  shrill  cries  of  "  Speech!  Speech!  " 

81 


Felicity 

Then  the  juvenile  lead  sang,  in  a  vigorous  bary- 
tone, a  rollicking  popular  song  in  the  chorus  of 
which  all  joined,  the  orchestra  scrambling  together 
for  the  accompaniment.  The  leading  lady  gave 
a  take-off  of  a  parlor  elocutionist,  and  the  little 
girl  who  had  succeeded  to  Felicity's  place  did  a 
fancy  dance. 

After  this  there  were  cries  for  Felicity,  from 
members  of  the  company  who  had  been  with  Mor- 
ton the  year  before.  She  hung  back,  pleading 
that  she  could  do  nothing,  but  Phineas  suggested 
that  she  ought  to  do  her  share,  that  she  was,  for 
instance,  perhaps  the  only  one  present  who  had 
ever  been  taught  elegant  deportment. 

"  I  believe  it  would  be  very  improving  to  a  lot 
of  vagabonds  like  us,"  he  said,  "  if  you  would  show 
us  how  really  good  behavior  is  taught." 

His  eyes  were  dancing  with  the  spirit  of  fun  and 
Felicity's  flashed  back  at  them  in  kind. 

"  If  you'll  be  the  little  girl  learning  to  behave," 
she  said,  "  I'll  be  all  the  people  in  the  receiving 
line,  and  show  you  how  they  did." 

Whereupon  Phineas  pulled  down  on  his  fore- 
head a  long  lock  of  that  sparse,  gray  hair  with 
which  he  made  feint  to  cover  his  bald  head,  and  set 
that  wonderfully  mobile  face  of  his  to  so  comical 
a  representation  of  a  silly  little  girl,  that  every- 
body shouted  in  gleeful  appreciation  before  ever 
he  had  begun  to  act  at  all.  He  had  not  removed 

82 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

his  make-up  for  the  play,  and  as  he  went  giggling 
and  simpering  down  the  imaginary  line  of  the 
Tutwiler  class  in  elegant  deportment,  he  was  so 
funny  as  to  reduce  his  guests  nearly  to  hysterics. 

Instantly  her  comedy  sense  was  appealed  to, 
Felicity  forgot  everything  else,  and  shyness  fell 
from  her  as  quickly  as  the  sense  of  reverence  did  in 
church  when  the  precentor  looked  like  the  Cheshire 
Cat,  or  as  the  sense  of  discipline  did  in  school  when 
the  Reverend  Tutwiler  offered  so  comical  a  repre- 
sentation of  President  Grant. 

To-night,  with  Phineas  to  spur  her  on,  she 
abandoned  herself  to  the  mimicry  of  the  Hilldale 
class  in  elegant  deportment  with  a  completeness 
which  made  her  forget  entirely  where  she  was  or 
who,  besides  her  old  "  Pardner,"  was  watching 
her. 

First,  she  drew  up  her  slender  little  person  to 
represent  the  slim  Tutwiler,  and  rubbed  her  hands 
in  imitation  of  the  unctuousness  he  could  not  lay 
aside  even  in  personating  the  least  unctuous  of  men 
— so  that  Phineas,  watching  her  narrowly  all  the 
while  he  was  playing  his  own  part,  marvelled  at 
the  child's  instinctive  understanding  of  the  two  so 
different  personalities. 

Then  she  puffed  out  in  likeness  of  pudgy  Mrs. 
Tutwiler,  professional  consoler;  and  pursed  her 
lips  as  the  ascetic  Miss  Hannah  P.  Bailey,  instruc- 
tor in  mathematics,  personating  Mrs.  Secretary  of 

83 


Felicity 


State ;  and  folded  her  hands  on  her  stomach  as  Miss 
Cordelia  Atwater,  teacher  of  grammar  and  rheto- 
ric, personating  Mrs.  Secretary  of  War.  Chang- 
ing from  character  to  character  in  a  twinkling, 
her  caricature  was  so  perfect  that  one  needed  not 
to  have  seen  the  originals  to  believe  in  its  utter 
faithfulness.  As  the  juvenile  lead  and  the  director 
of  the  orchestra  agreed,  she  was  "  simply 
immense." 

When  the  applause  had  subsided,  Phineas  sum- 
moned all  hands  to  a  Virginia  reel  which  waxed 
merrier  and  merrier  until  it  wound  up  in  a  frolic 
out  of  which  all  scurried,  breathless,  to  wings 
and  dressing-rooms,  at  seven-thirty. 

Phineas,  being  ready  to  go  on,  had  no  need  to 
hurry,  and  lingered  for  a  while  to  talk  with 
Amelia  and  Felicity. 

"  Well,  Pardner,"  he  said  to  the  latter,  "  I  guess 
we  can  make  a  comedienne  out  o'  you,  all  right. 
You  seem  to  have  the  stuff  in  you.  But  you've  a 
long,  hard  row  to  hoe  if  you're  going  to  develop  it. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do:  If  you'll  work 
hard  at  school  until  June  and  learn  what  you 
can — if  you  don't  like  their  deportment,  see  if 
you  can't  learn  to  like  the  way  they  spell — I'll  take 
you  to  Europe  in  the  summer.  We'll  go  to  see 
where  your  dear  Queen  Mary  lived  and  where 
she  lies  dead;  and  we'll  ride  on  top  of  all  the 
'busses  there  are,  and  watch  folks,  and  develop  our 

84 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

comedy  sense  all  we  can.    Come,  now,  what  do  you 
say?     Is  it  a  bargain?" 

It  was,  and  they  sealed  it  with  a  kiss. 

In  June  they  went  abroad.  The  summer  before 
Phineas  had  taken  Frances  Allston  and  her  boys 
and  had  delighted  in  giving  his  daughter  a  season 
of  the  greatest  possible  change  from  Millville. 
This  summer  he  did  a  characteristic  thing:  He 
wanted  to  take  Felicity,  he  really  coveted  the  pleas- 
ure of  her  blithe  young  companionship  in  his  ram- 
bles about  familiar  places.  But  it  was  out  of  the 
question  to  take  her  alone  and  assume  responsibility 
for  her  every  minute.  Phineas  knew  himself  too 
well  even  to  contemplate  that.  Also,  he  chuckled 
to  find  himself  remembering,  he  could  not  take 
Amelia  and  Felicity;  it  would  not  do,  for  Amelia, 
and  if  it  would,  the  arrangement  would  still  have 
come  far  from  suiting  him.  Amelia  was  an  excel- 
lent woman,  but  the  thought  of  trailing  her  about 
Europe  for  two  months  was  insupportable,  and  she 
could  not  be  left  alone  in  hotels  or  pensions  while 
he  and  Felicity  enjoyed  things  together. 

The  only  way  out  of  the  dilemma  was  an  expen- 
sive way,  but  that  never  halted  Phineas,  whether 
he  had  the  money  or  whether  he  had  not.  So  he 
offered  a  trip  to  his  widowed  sister  who  had  never 
been  "  back  home  "  since  she  left  there  a  bride  of 
nineteen,  and  who  accepted  with  an  alacrity  that 

85 


Felicity 

might  have  been  a  little  less  if  she  had  known 
that  she  was  expected,  besides  lending  countenance 
to  the  expedition,  to  keep  Amelia  company  on 
mild,  old  lady-like  excursions  while  Phineas 
tramped  over  his  happy  hunting-grounds  hand  in 
hand  with  sweet  Felicity,  or  absented  himself  from 
all  his  guests  in  search  of  adventure  with  "  big, 
black  bears." 

Nothing  on  earth  was  irksome  to  Phineas  if  he 
could  take  it  or  leave  it  at  will,  but  the  moment 
anything  became  obligatory,  that  moment  he  began 
to  lay  plans  for  its  evasion.  So,  before  he  started 
for  Europe,  happy  in  the  happiness  he  was  giving, 
he  had  fixed  things  so  that  whenever  he  felt  he 
must  "  slide  out,"  he  could,  quite  comfortably, 
without  the  fret  of  fearing  that  he  was  causing 
distress. 

Thus  fortified  against  the  probability  he  dreaded 
most,  Phineas  gave  himself  over  to  enjoyment  with 
all  the  ingenuous  delight  of  a  child.  Nor  did  it 
ever  enter  his  head  to  wonder  if  Sister  Emmeline 
and  Amelia  would  be  congenial  to  each  other,  or 
if  they  would  mind  companioning  together  while 
he  and  Felicity  went  here  and  yon  as  fancy  led 
them. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Amelia  was  disappointed 
not  to  have  more  of  Felicity's  company,  and  Sis- 
ter Emmeline  was  disappointed  not  to  be  more 
frequently  her  brother's  companion.  But  Phineas 

86 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

had  a  happy  summer,  and  Felicity  was  the  most 
radiant  little  creature  in  all  Europe. 

Phineas  took  her  to  Queen  Mary's  room  in  Holy- 
rood  where  the  murder  of  Rizzio  had  taken  place 
and  where,  three  centuries  later,  Robert  Fergus 
had  faced  suddenly  about,  one  day,  and  caught 
his  first  sight  of  Cecile  McClintock.  Amelia  had 
desired  with  all  her  heart  to  be  with  Felicity 
when  she  first  saw  this  room,  but  that  happened 
to  be  one  of  the  days  when  she  was  left  to 
"  sight  see  "  in  the  company  of  Sister  Emmeline. 
When  she  expressed  her  disappointment,  Felicity 
promptly  offered  to  go  again  "  all  alone  "  with 
her  Aunt  Elie,  but  though  they  did  this,  it  was  not 
an  equivalent  to  Amelia,  but  only  a  concession  to 
Felicity's  distress. 

They  followed  the  trail  of  Scott  in  Edinburgh 
and  Phineas  told  Felicity  about  Marjorie  Fleming 
and  read  her  Dr.  John  Brown's  essay.  He  told 
her,  too,  of  Scott's  misfortunes  and  of  his  pluck 
in  meeting  them.  And  he  filled  her  full  of  Burns 
as  she  could  hold,  for  Phineas  loved  his  Bobby  as 
all  the  brothers  of  the  open  road  have  ever  done. 
He  told  her  of  those  things,  as  well  as  he  could, 
wherefor  Burns  had  been  blamed  by  the  censori- 
ous, and  opined  with  splendid  conviction  that 
before  a  juster  Tribunal  they  would  count  for 
naught  beside  his  gifts  of  compassion  and  tender- 
ness and  the  love  of  beauty,  to  humankind. 

87 


Felicity 


In  Paris  he  gave  her  a  liberal  education — far 
too  liberal  for  her  to  comprehend,  yet — in  Balzac, 
whose  genius  he  adored  and  whose  life  he  found 
of  interest  paramount  even  to  his  work;  and  told 
her  tale  after  tale  of  Moliere — good  and  bad  of 
him — and  of  Racine  and  of  Rachel,  and  took  her 
to  the  Comedie  Franchise,  where,  among  others, 
she  saw  Sara  Bernhardt  act. 

"  That  child  doesn't  understand  a  hundredth 
part  of  what  you  tell  her,"  said  Sister  Emmeline 
one  day  after  she  had  come  upon  them  in  one  of 
their  "  discussions." 

"  Why,  of  course  she  doesn't,"  answered 
Phineas,  as  if  surprised  that  any  one  should  trouble 
to  make  so  obvious  an  observation,  "  but  she  will, 
some  day.  Before  her  day's  done,  little  Felicity 
will  understand  a  heap  o'  things,  and  I'm  priding 
myself  that  a  good  many  times  in  the  course  of  her 
life,  after  I'm  dead  and  gone,  she'll  say,  '  This 
reminds  me  of  what  The  Old  Man  once  said.'  ' 

And  so  he  went  on  talking  to  her  of  the  good 
and  bad  in  every  one,  of  the  deliciousness  of  the 
human  comedy,  and  the  value  of  sorrow  to  the 
world;  and  it  was  no  wonder  the  child  felt  the 
fascination  of  his  talk,  for  it  was  full  of  a  witchery 
no  one  could  have  withstood.  And  all  the  while, 
Phineas  was  delightedly  conscious  how  mixed  was 
his  pleasure  in  it — how  half  of  it  was  the  yearning 
tenderness  of  old  age  for  youth,  and  half  of  it  was 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

the  sheer,  selfish  joy  of  recapitulation,  the  old 
man's  zest  for  dwelling  in  the  past.  Felicity  had 
a  way  of  inspiring  in  him  those  moods  in  which 
he  most  enjoyed  himself,  he  reflected  whimsically 
• — and  liked  himself  far  better  than  if  he  had  tried 
to  make  himself  think  his  interest  in  the  child  was 
pure  benevolence. 

In  London  he  took  her  over  the  Dickens  haunts, 
telling  her  a  hundred  stories  of  that  great  come- 
dian, not  long  dead,  who  had  been  his  boon  friend; 
and  to  the  Bluecoat  School  and  to  the  Charter- 
house, and  to  the  grave  of  a  merry  fellow  named 
Goldsmith. 

Late  in  August  they  sailed  for  home  and  when 
they  landed  got  word  of  Jane  Fergus's  serious  ill- 
ness. Grandfather  McClintock  was  in  New  York 
to  meet  them  and  to  see  his  Cecile's  child  for  the 
third  time  only,  and  he  went  with  them  at  once 
to  Millville,  where  Zilianne  was  in  charge  of  the 
stark,  silent  house — Jane  Fergus  lay  dead  in  the 
parlor,  with  the  Covenanters  looking  down  from 
the  whitewashed  wall. 

Amelia,  in  all  she  had  suffered  these  three  years 
past,  had  never  expected  so  agonizing  a  climax  as 
this;  it  had  never  seemed  possible  to  her  that  her 
mother  should  die  estranged  from  her.  None  of 
the  moves  she  had  made  toward  reconciliation  had 
met  with  the  least  encouragement;  nevertheless  she 
had  always  been  sustained  by  the  belief  that  sooner 

89 


Felicity 


or  later  her  mother  would  relent  and  be  at  peace 
with  them.  Now  that  this  hope  was  dead,  Amelia 
was  racked  by  tortures  of  self-condemnation  which 
made  her  friends  fear,  for  a  while,  that  she  would 
lose  her  reason. 

"  I  thought  I  was  doing  right  when  I  went," 
she  sobbed,  over  and  over  again  to  every  one  to 
whom  she  unbosomed  herself,  "  I  thought  I  owed 
what  I  did  to  Felicity,  and  to  Robert,  and  to  poor 
little  Cecile.  I'd  never  have  done  it  if  I'd  thought 
it  was  wrong.  Oh,  why  isn't  there  always  a 
wrong  way  and  a  right  way — one  all  wrong  and 
one  all  right,  and  no  mistaking  them  ?  Why,  when 
we  mean  only  the  best  and  are  willing  to  do 
right  at  any  cost,  ought  things  like  this  to  happen 
to  us?" 

"  The  chances  of  the  road !  "  said  Phineas, 
when  she  asked  him  these  torturing  questions. 
"  It's  taking  the  chances  handsomely  that  makes 
men  and  women  of  us.  It's  the  brave  spirit,  unfal- 
tering because  the  luck  o'  the  road  was  rough, 
that's  kept  the  old  world  a  good  place  to  live  in, 
that's  made  the  highway  a  road  o'  royal  com- 
pany. And  if  you  expected  Felicity  to  be  great, 
you  ought  to  have  expected  things  like  this.  No- 
body's wafted  to  the  heights,  dear  lady;  the  climb- 
ing's  rough  and  full  o'  perils." 

There  could  be  no  question  of  separating  Felic- 
ity from  Amelia  that  fall,  and  of  all  the  plans  they 

90 


The  Making  of  a  Comedienne 

discussed  none  seemed  so  feasible  as  Alec  McClin- 
tock's  proposition  to  take  them  both  to  Briar- 
wood  for  the  winter.  The  plantation  was  to  be 
Felicity's  some  day,  and  it  was  high  time  she 
was  getting  acquainted  with  it,  he  said. 

So  they  locked  up  the  grim,  gray  house  on  Fed- 
eral Street,  and  with  Zilianne  weeping  joyously 
and  sadly  all  at  once,  they  turned  their  faces 
toward  that  strangely  different  home  which  had 
given  Felicity  one-half  her  heritage. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  'WITCHING  SMILE 

PHINEAS  MORTON  had  that  afternoon 
addressed  Harvard  College  on  "  The 
Comedians,"  and  had  invited  his  grandsons,  both 
at  Harvard,  to  dine  with  him  at  the  Parker 
House  at  five-thirty  and  occupy  a  box  afterwards 
at  the  play. 

"  Bring  four  fellows,"  he  said,  "  and  let's  have 
a  good  time." 

The  four  fellows  were  easily  persuaded,  and 
much  as  they  enjoyed  themselves  not  one  of  them 
had  so  good  a  time  as  The  Old  Man.  It  was  a 
jolly  little  dinner  in  the  public  dining-room  where 
The  Old  Man  nearly  always  ate,  because  he 
frankly  did  not  mind  the  interested  stares  of  his 
fellow-diners;  people  loved  him,  and  he  knew  it, 
and  no  evidence  of  it  ever  annoyed  him. 

As  for  the  four  fellows,  they  could  hardly  give 
attention  to  the  feast  for  watching  the  dining- 
room  door  in  the  hope  that  among  the  early 
comers  would  be  some  who  would  recognize  them 
and  whose  envy  of  their  distinguished  company 

92 


The  Girl  with  the  'Witching  Smile 

would  make  it  trebly  zestful.  Phineas  was  keenly 
aware  of  this,  and  almost  chuckled  aloud  when 
some  one  one  of  them  did  know,  came  in  and  was 
greeted  with  a  superb  little  nod,  as  from  the 
Olympian  heights. 

"  You  know,"  said  Phineas,  addressing  Mor- 
ton in  a  pause,  "  that  Felicity  is  with  me  again?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  tried  to  get  them  to  dine  with  us,  but  it 
seems  they  had  asked  some  ancient  crony  of  Miss 
Amelia's  from  Salem  to  dine  with  them.  Have 
you  seen  Felicity?  " 

"  No,  sir;  haven't  seen  her  in  two  years,  you 
know — not  since  she  came  up  from  Mississippi  and 
got  ready  to  go  abroad." 

"  Well,  you're  going  to  be  surprised.  She's 
grown  up,  now." 

"  Why,  she  isn't  sixteen,  yet!  " 

"  No,  not  till  next  March,  but  she  looks  a  good 
deal  older.  She's  the  prettiest  thing  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life." 

"  Gee !  "  All  the  boys  were  listening,  and  the 
eager  interest  they  showed  when  he  spoke  of  pret- 
tiness,  gave  Phineas  immense  delight. 

Then  he  told  the  four  fellows  about  the  Mary 
Stuart  play,  and  raised  a  hearty,  boyish  laugh  over 
the  scenes  of  blood  so  mildly  played. 

"  Little  brick,  Felicity  was,"  Adams  commented, 
"  I  remember  when  we  tried  to  have  a  play  after 

93 


Felicity 


she  left,  and  no  girl  would  be  the  settler's  wife  and 
cross  the  '  Indian-harried  plains  '  in  Mort's  express 
wagon." 

"  Well,  she's  still  a  little  brick,  but  she  takes  life 
very  seriously  now,"  said  Phineas,  his  eyes  twink- 
ling. "  She  has  arrived  at  the  age  where  nothing 
will  make  her  quite  happy  but  a  great  o'erwhelm- 
ing  misery.  If  she  doesn't  find  one  pretty  soon,  I 
don't  know  what'll  become  o'  the  poor  child.  I 
don't  suppose  any  o'  you  young  gentlemen  feel  a 
chivalrous  desire  to  provide  her  with  the  requisites 
for  an  unrequited  passion,  do  you?  No!  I  can 
see  by  your  confused  looks  that  every  one  of  you 
is  fully  occupied  in  that  direction.  Keep  occupied, 
boys!  Falling  in  love's  the  best  education  a  man 
gets — better  than  Harvard  can  give  him.  No 
fellow  ever  learns  anything  worth  shucks  while 
his  heart's  at  ease ;  it's  what  we  find  out  when  the 
heart's  anything  but  easy,  that  counts,  in  the  long 
run.  Now  I  must  get  off  to  the  theatre.  Come 
behind,  after  the  play,  and  see  Felicity.  But  if 
I  don't  see  you  fellows  again,  remember  me  by 
what  I  told  you  about  hearts;  there's  nothing  like 
Love's  misery  for  making  men." 

After  he  was  gone  the  boys  sat  on  and  smoked 
and  talked,  and  there  were  one  or  two  at  least 
who  seemed  to  have  a  little  surplus  of  romantic 
interest  not  in  service  (as  what  man  has  not?) 
for  they  plied  Morton  and  Adams  with  questions 

94 


The  Girl  with  the  'Witching  Smile 

about  Felicity.  Was  that  her  real  name?  How 
did  she  get  it?  Was  she  really  pretty?  Did  their 
grandfather  think  she  was  going  to  be  a  great 
actress?  And  so  on. 

'  We  haven't  seen  her  since  she  was  thirteen," 
said  Morton,  with  all  the  superiority  of  twenty 
years  for  the  things  of  youth,  "  but  she's  said  to 
promise  great  beauty  and  great  talent.  She's  been 
in  Europe  for  two  years,  studying  and  travelling, 
and  only  came  back  in  time  to  join  Gran's  company 
in  September.  He's  terribly  interested  in  her  and 
wants  to  give  her  some  practical  stage  training  of 
his  own  sort,  so  he  hurried  her  back  for  fear 
another  year  might  not  find  him  on  the  boards. 
He's  over  seventy,  you  know." 

On  the  way  to  the  theatre,  Morton  stopped  in 
a  florist's  and  bought  some  pink  roses  which  he 
sent  back  to  Felicity  "  with  the  compliments  of  the 
killer,"  and  to  his  delight  she  had  one  of  the  roses 
in  her  hair  when  she  came  on  in  her  first  scene, 
which  was  not  until  the  second  act. 

She  was  pretty!  Not  one  of  the  six  fellows 
denied  that,  though  three  of  them  had  sworn 
eternal  fealty  to  the  brunette  type  and  one  was 
thrall  to  eyes  of  blue. 

Felicity's  eyes  were  brown,  deepest,  sablest 
brown,  with  no  glints  of  gold  in  them,  and  her 
skin  was  of  the  creamy  tone  that  usually  goes  with 
such  eyes.  Her  hair  was  a  light  brown,  neither 

95 


Felicity 

chestnut  nor  deepened  blond,  but  a  pale  otter- 
color,  wonderfully  even  in  tone  and  silken  in 
quality. 

There  was  nothing  vivid  about  her  coloring,  no 
dancing  lights  in  hair  and  eyes.  She  wore  a  little 
stage-tint,  of  course,  to  keep  her  from  looking 
pallid  across  the  footlights,  but  not  even  enough 
of  that  to  do  more  than  nullify  the  rather  ghastly 
hue  of  the  stage-lights  and  the  tin  reflectors.  Be- 
fore she  spoke,  she  gave  the  effect  of  being  almost 
colorless,  but  when  she  smiled,  one  understood  at 
once  why  Phineas  had  so  implicit  faith  in  her 
future.  There  was  a  witchery  in  that  smile  that 
the  dullest  never  failed  to  feel,  and  Phineas  was 
freshly  delighted  with  every  tribute  to  it. 

"  Nature  is  a  great  artist,"  he  was  wont  to 
observe,  "  and  she  planned  with  'mazing  subtlety 
when  she  planned  that  child.  Nothing  more  exqui- 
site could  be  imagined  than  the  way  this  little,  pale 
flower  of  a  girl,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a 
Botticelli  Madonna,  discloses  a  dancing,  entranc- 
ing comedy  spirit  the  moment  her  face  lights  up 
with  a  smile.  Compared  to  the  high-colored, 
buxom  lady  who  is  there,  you  know,  to  make  you 
laugh,  or  the  pale-colored,  melancholy  lady  who  is 
there,  you  know,  to  make  you  cry,  the  surprising- 
ness  of  this  Felicity  is  the  most  delicious  thing  I 
know.  The  little  thrill  of  wonder  she  creates  is 
sort  o'  personal  to  each  one  in  her  audience — each 

96 


The  Girl  with  the  'Witching  Smile 

has  a  flattering  idea  that  he  alone  has  felt  the  sub- 
tlety of  it.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  it's  great !  " 

And,  now  that  their  attention  had  been  called 
to  it,  the  boys  found  it  so  indeed,  and  after  the 
last  curtain  almost  tumbled  upon  the  stage  through 
the  door  just  outside  of  their  box;  and  all  previous 
fealties  whensoever  declared,  faded  from  memory 
while  six  fellows  tried,  collectively  when  must  be, 
individually  when  could  be,  to  bring  smiles  to  that 
mouth  that  was  made  for  smiles. 

But  Felicity  was  shy,  even  of  Morton  and 
Adams — which  The  Old  Man,  watching,  thought 
was  a  pity  considering  her  girlishness,  but  emi- 
nently fitting,  considering  her  art. 

"  That  shyness  gives  her  complete  cover  while 
she  steals  upon  you  unawares  with  her  charm.  I'd 
hate  like  sin  to  have  her  get  that  kind  of  assurance 
of  her  fascinations  that  would  lead  her  to  rise  up 
and  hit  you  in  the  eye  with  them,  as  most  women 
do,"  he  reflected.  "  It'll  be  an  artistic  pity,  actu- 
ally it  will,  when  she  becomes  famous,  as  she's 
bound  to  do,  so  that  people  will  get  to  expecting 
things  of  her  instead  of  letting  her  take  them 
unawares." 

That  night  six  fellows  dreamed  of  a  slip  of  a 
girl  with  the  'witchingest  mouth  in  the  whole  wide 
world  and  a  pink  rosebud  in  her  pale  brown  hair. 

Phineas,  on  request,  had  given  each  of  the  four 
strangers  a  photograph  of  himself  autographed 

97 


Felicity 


in  his  quaint,  microscopic  handwriting,  and  the  next 
day  Morton  had  to  constitute  himself  a  deputa- 
tion to  wait  on  "  Gran  "  with  a  request  for  pictures 
of  Felicity.  Phineas,  gravely  concealing  his 
delight,  showed  a  photograph  belonging  to  him 
and  said  he  might  be  able  to  get  six  more  like 
it.  Yes,  certainly,  if  Morton  wanted  this  one 
very  much  he  might  take  it,  and  Phineas  would 
get  another  out  of  the  lot  requested  for  the  fel- 
lows. 

"  It's  so  serious;  it's  not  like  her,"  objected  one 
of  the  fellows  when  Morton  displayed  his  treasure. 
Then  Morton  explained: 

"  Gran  says  she'll  never  have  a  smiling  picture 
taken  if  he  can  help  it,"  he  said,  "  not  even  if  a 
new  Leonardo  could  paint  her  as  a  new  Mona  Lisa. 
He  says  the  instant  a  smile  becomes  fixed  it  becomes 
odious." 

This  was  a  brand-new  subtlety  to  Harvard 
upper-classmen,  and  one  at  least  of  these  six  went 
into  his  room,  stared  with  positive  resentment  at 
the  picture  of  a  rollicking  girl  showing  a  major 
part  of  her  fine  teeth,  and  stuffed  it  behind  a  row 
of  books.  Another  was  heard  to  express  lively 
impatience  with  a  Cambridge  young  lady  whose 
name  came  up  in  the  course  of  conversation. 
"  Silly  little  giggler!  "  he  commented,  ungallantly 
— forgetting  that  not  a  week  ago  he  had  lauded 
her  "  vivacity."  If  Phineas  could  have  known 

98 


The  Girl  with  the  'Witching  Smile 

these    things    his    chuckling   delight    would   have 
passed  all  bounds. 

In  due  time,  the  five  other  photographs  came, 
ornately  autographed  in  flourishing  letters,  much 
"  shaded,"  and  were  prominently  displayed  and 
much  talked  about,  for  a  while.  Then,  also  in 
due  time,  the  girl  with  the  fine  teeth  came  out  from 
behind  the  row  of  books  again,  and  giggling  re- 
assumed  its  natural  attractiveness  in  the  eyes  of 
exuberant  youth,  while  Felicity  became  a  pale 
memory,  even  to  Adams  and  Morton,  who  had 
fitful  correspondence  with  her.  Correspondence 
counts  for  little  compared  with  propinquity,  when 
the  heart  beats  young;  perhaps,  too,  when  it  beats 
more  soberly. 


99 


CHAPTER    VIII 

VINCENT,  THE  DEBONAIR,  DOES  A  GALLANT  THING 
THAT'S  FRAUGHT  WITH  DESTINY 

"TTTELL,"  said  Jack  Ashley,  of  the  Morton 

V  V       company,  "  it  never  rains  but  it  pours." 

"  What  d'ye  mean?  "  growled  Vincent  Delano, 

juvenile  lead  of  the  same  company  and  laid  up  with 

a  sharp  attack  of  neuralgia   in  what  he  termed 

"  this  beast  of  a  Cincinnati." 

"  It's  a  good  thing,"  Ashley  went  on,  ignoring 
the  question,  "  that  The  Old  Man's  all  the  dear 
public  comes  to  see,  and  that  it  cares  precious  little 
for  anybody  else,  for  there  won't  be  much  else 
to-night." 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  reiterated  Vincent, 
through  his  ludicrous  flannel  swathings.  '  Just 
because  I'm  out?  " 

"  No;  Miss  Fessenden's  down  and  out,  too — 
got  a  bronchial  cold  and  can't  speak  above  a  whis- 
per, and  the  little  Fergus  girl's  got  to  play  her 
part — rehearsal  for  all  hands  at  four,  even  The 
Old  Man,  I  hear,"  he  finished,  looking  at  his 
watch. 

100 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

"Gad!    That's  a  kettle  o' fish!" 

"  Bet  you !  As  I  say,  though,  except  the  girls, 
nobody  cares  who's  on  or  off  if  The  Old  Man's 
there.  But  Crosby'll  get  all  your  incense.  Gee ! 
If  some  o'  your  crushes  could  see  you  now !  " 

"Shut  up!"  invited  Delano.  Then,  "  No- 
body'll  ever  know  I'm  out,  I  suppose,  but  I'm  darn 
sorry  that  nice  little  girl's  got  to  play  with  that 
infernal  fool,  Crosby.  He'll  be  so  swollen  with 
pride  at  a  chance  to  disport  himself  in  a  real  role, 
he'll  never  do  a  thing  to  make  it  easy  for  her. 
If  I'd  been  playing  I  could  have  helped  her  a  lot. 
She'll  be  scared  to  death,  poor  young  one !  And 
that  ass'll  never  care  for  a  thing  but  the  impres- 
sion he'll  think  he's  making." 

"  That's  right,"  assented  Ashley,  "  what'd  the 
Doc.  say  about  you?  " 

"  Said  I  mustn't  put  my  fool  face  out  o'  the 
house  for  a  couple  o'  days.  Did  me  up  in  these 
blasted  bandages.  Say!  "  tearing  them  off  with 
an  impatient  hand,  "  how  do  I  look?  " 

"  Oh,  you  look  all  right — your  beauty's  unim- 
paired, so  far.  How  d'ye  feel?  " 

"  Like  a  house  afire — never  got  a  wink  last 
night,  walked  the  floor  till  broad  daylight." 

"  Awfully  sorry,  old  man !  Anything  I  can  do 
for  you?  " 

"  Nope,  thanks." 

"  Well,  I've  got  to  hustle.    Ta-ta !  " 
101 


Felicity 


Rehearsal  was  in  full  progress,  under  the  per- 
sonal direction  of  Phineas  as  well  as  of  his  stage 
manager,  and  Mr.  Horace  Crosby  was  standing 
in  his  entrance  muttering  the  lines  of  his  principal 
scene  in  Delano's  part,  when  the  stage  door  was 
flung  open  and  a  tall  gentleman,  muffled  to  the  eyes, 
strode  across  the  rear  of  the  "  set  "  and  crowded 
into  the  entrance  occupied  by  Crosby. 

"  All  right,  Crosby,"  he  said,  sharply,  "  I  guess 
I  can  play."  And  when  the  cue  came  he  went  on, 
still  muffled. 

"  Delano!  "  said  Phineas,  surprised;  but  Delano 
gave  no  sign  of  wishing  to  explain,  and  so  the 
rehearsal  proceeded,  much  simplified  by  his  pres- 
ence, for  now  there  were  only  two  to  work  in 
instead  of  four.  He  was  on  until  the  close  of  the 
act,  and  there  was  no  opportunity  to  question  him 
until  then. 

"  I  thought  you  were  laid  up,  my  boy,"  said 
Phineas,  kindly. 

'Well,  I  was;  but  when  I  heard  about  Miss 
Fessenden  I  came  anyway — thought  maybe  you'd 
have  a  devil  of  a  time  with  four  understudies  and 
only  one  rehearsal." 

Phineas  looked  a  little  grave.  "  It  is  a  mix-up," 
he  said,  "  but  they  all  seem  to  know  their  parts 
pretty  well  and  there's  no  need  of  your  taking  this 
risk." 

"  Pshaw!  "  said  Delano,  "  I  guess  I  can  stand 
102 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

it.  That  leaves  only  Miss  Fergus's  part  to  be 
filled — how've  you  managed  that?  " 

"  The  local  manager  got  a  little  girl  in  town — 
she's  hard  at  it,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  wings. 

'  Well,  count  me  in — I  guess  I'm  good  for  it." 

"  I'm  not  sure  I  ought  to  let  you,"  Phineas 
began,  but  Delano  was  gone,  into  the  wings  to 
encourage  Felicity. 

14  Now,  you  buck  up,  little  girl,"  he  told  her, 
"  and  I'll  play  into  your  hand  all  I  can." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  the  rehearsal 
went  off  smoothly,  heedless  of  Crosby's  discom- 
fiture. 

Amelia,  in  Miss  Fessenden's  dressing-room,  was 
sewing  for  dear  life,  taking  in  the  leading  lady's 
costumes  to  fit  Felicity's  far  slenderer  figure.  A 
dinner  was  brought  to  her  from  a  near-by  hotel,  at 
The  Old  Man's  orders,  and  she  snatched  a  bite 
now  and  then  while  she  worked.  The  young  girl 
hastily  enlisted  to  play  Felicity's  part  also  dined 
from  a  tray — which  looked  as  untouched  when 
she  was  done  as  when  it  was  laid  before  her.  But 
Felicity  went  to  the  hotel  with  Phineas. 

'  You  know  your  lines  and  your  cues,"  he  said, 
"  now  stop  worrying;  the  rest'll  come  to  you  as  you 
need  it,  or  it  won't  come  at  all;  but  worry  won't 
bring  it,  though  it  may  keep  it  away." 

Nevertheless  Felicity  worried.  It  was  her  first 
appearance  in  a  part  of  any  prominence.  She  had 

103 


Felicity 

understudied  Miss  Fessenden  faithfully,  but  never 
till  to-night  had  there  been  need  of  her  services. 

The  play  was  a  pretty  one,  of  The  Old  Man's 
usual  type — he  playing  an  old  inventor  of  quaint, 
lovable  character,  and  Felicity  playing  his  elder 
daughter  who  is  loved  by  a  young  man  sent  to  buy 
for  a  pittance  the  patent  in  which  his  company  sees 
millions,  but  which  the  old  inventor  has  no  means 
to  develop  for  himself. 

The  inventor's  younger  daughter,  who  acci- 
dentally finds  out  the  mean  mission  of  the  young 
man  and  tries  to  make  her  sister  see  him  as  he  is,  was 
the  part  usually  played  by  Felicity,  and  in  addition 
to  her  assumption  of  the  more  important  role, 
she  had  to  coach  the  stranger  in  the  minor  one 
and  to  rehearse  with  her  many  times  the  main 
scene  between  the  sisters. 

No  one  in  the  great  audience  that  greeted  Mor- 
ton that  night  had  any  suspicion  of  the  flurry  that 
preceded  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  nor  of  the  icy 
coldness  of  the  hand  which  his  elder  daughter  laid 
on  the  inventor's  brow  as  she  made  her  first 
entrance  saying,  "  How's  my  dear  old  daddy  this 
morning?  " 

It  was  The  Old  Man  himself  on  whom  all  eyes 
were  riveted ;  it  was  his  voice,  quavering,  now,  with 
no  simulation  of  age,  but  rich  and  vibrant  still, 
that  filled  the  ears  of  the  audience.  Something 
infinitely  benign  emanated  from  him,  always — 

104 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

something  that  made  the  laughs  he  raised  without 
a  sting  and  the  tears  he  brought  without  bitterness, 
and  sent  every  one  away  from  him  with  a  kindlier 
feeling  toward  the  whole,  wide  world. 

He  was  playing  well,  to-night,  so  well  that  even 
Felicity  forgot  herself  and  her  fright  several  times 
in  loving  admiration  of  his  perfect  art — art  that 
was  so  near  to  nature  and  so  inevitable  an  expres- 
sion of  his  own  nature  that  one  could  not  say  where 
the  art  left  off  and  the  nature  began,  and  some  peo- 
ple denied  him  any  art  at  all,  because  he  only  gave 
expression  to  himself — which  was  no  trick  at  all, 
they  held,  though  still  they  went  to  see  it  done. 

Poor  Delano  suffered  tortures  with  his  face, 
but  he  played  as  if  neuralgia  were  unknown  until 
after  the  third  act  when,  to  his  immense  disgust, 
he  fainted  in  his  dressing-room. 

Felicity  heard  of  it  while  she  was  dressing  for 
the  last  act. 

u  Mr.  Ashley  says  Mr.  Delano  insisted  on  play- 
ing because  he  could  make  it  easier  for  you,  Miss 
Fergus,"  said  the  dresser,  who  was  serving  Felic- 
ity. "  I'd  never  have  thought  it  of  him,"  the 
woman  went  on,  "  and  him  so  spoiled  and  run  after 
by  the  girls,  and  his  head  so  turned  by  his  good 
looks.  But  it  just  goes  to  show  you  never  can 
tell,"  was  the  moral  reflection.  "  I  call  it  real 
heroic  of  him." 

For  a  few  minutes  it  looked  as  if  Horace 
105 


Felicity 


Crosby  would  have  to  go  on  in  the  last  act  in 
Vincent's  stead,  but  there  was  no  scene  for  the 
leading  man  until  the  latter  part  of  the  act,  and 
long  before  the  cue  came,  Vincent  was  in  his  en- 
trance, waiting. 

It  was  the  scene  where  all  is  righted  and  love 
triumphs  over  all  obstacles.  It  had  been  almost 
funny,  this  afternoon,  when  the  lover,  wrapped  to 
the  eyes  to  protect  his  aching  face  from  the  chill 
of  the  draughty  stage,  had  gone  through  the  final 
scene  with  Felicity.  But  now,  there  was  something 
underneath  the  pretty  fervor  of  it  that  no  one  but 
the  two  concerned  knew. 

In  a  moment  when  the  lovers  are  supposed  to 
be  talking  earnestly  apart,  Felicity  looked  up  into 
Vincent's  handsome  face,  pale  under  its  cosmetic 
flush,  and  with  eyes  shining  like  stars  whispered: 

"  Oh,  it  was  so  good  of  you  !  I  can  never  thank 
you  enough — to  suffer  so,  and  all  to  help  me 
through !  " 

"  Pshaw !  "  said  Vincent,  lightly,  in  funny  con- 
trast to  his  pantomime  of  deep  feeling,  "  you  make 
too  much  of  it — it  was  only  the  decent  thing  to  do. 
And  besides,"  his  old,  unconquerable  gallantry 
rising  in  spite  of  him,  "  how  do  you  know  how 
much  I  wanted  to  play  the  part  with  you  ?  " 

Then  their  cue  came,  and  the  last  scene — where 
the  old  inventor,  properly  rewarded  and  made 
happy  at  last,  seeing  how  matters  are  with  the 

106 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

lovers,  slips  quietly  and  half-wistfully  away,  clos- 
ing the  door  very  slowly,  with  a  lingering  look 
full  of  the  tenderness  of  ripe  age  on  the  rosy- 
hued  young  love  left  behind,  and  after  a  tense 
moment  the  curtain  goes  slowly  down  on  the  lovers, 
locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

It  was,  in  Felicity's  eyes,  the  chief  of  all  the  race 
of  heroes  who  held  out  his  arms  to  her  on  the 
stage  that  night.  And  there  was  something  in  the 
wholly  shy,  yet  wholly  glad  little  move  she  made 
toward  him  that  thrilled  the  audience  with  the 
sweetness  of  love's  surrender. 

When  the  curtain  went  down  there  was  a  brief 
instant  of  waiting  for  it  to  rise  again,  a  brief  instant 
in  which  Vincent,  holding  the  slender  little  figure 
to  him,  felt  the  arms  that  clasped  his  neck  tremble 
and,  looking  into  the  velvety  brown  eyes  upraised 
to  his,  saw  in  them  a  wonderful  light  of  newly 
awakened  consciousness  that  smote  him — happy- 
go-lucky,  unthinking  fellow  that  he  was — with  a 
sense  of  awe. 

"  Golly !  "  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  what's 
come  over  the  child?  " 

But  in  his  heart  he  knew. 

Miss  Fessenden's  cold  kept  her  speechless  for 
two  weeks.  She  was  by  no  means  ill  enough  to 
stay  behind  the  company  when  it  left  Cincinnati, 
and  every  day  she  hoped  the  next  would  find  her 

107 


Felicity 


better.     But  for  a  whole  fortnight  Felicity  played 
her  part,  and  played  it  prettily. 

Delano  succumbed  to  his  ailment  for  two  per- 
formances subsequent  to  that  eventful  night,  and 
Crosby  fulfilled  all  expectations  by  making  the 
most  of  the  occasion  to  display  his  own  talents, 
regardless  of  Felicity.  But  Felicity  did  not  care — 
then.  She  pretended  he  was  Vincent,  and  the 
play  went  smoothly.  She  told  herself  she  must 
do  her  best  for  his  sake  who  had  suffered  so  much 
for  her ;  and  the  thought  lent  unlimited  zest  to  her 
acting. 

The  second  night  of  Vincent's  absence,  as  she 
and  Amelia  were  leaving  the  theatre,  Jack  Ashley 
overtook  them. 

"  Going  to  see  Delano,"  he  said.  "  I'll  tell  him 
how  bully  you've  been  doing,  Miss  Fergus.  Any 
message  you'd  like  to  send?  " 

'  Tell  him,"  began  Felicity,  and  her  heart  flut- 
tered, "  tell  him,  I  hope  he'll  soon  be  well." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  I'm  taking  him  his  mail — 
see  I  "  And  he  held  up  a  bundle  of  thirty  or  forty 
letters  tied  together  with  a  stout  string.  "  I  can't 
tell  his  friends'  letters  from  his  mash  notes,  so  I 
have  to  take  'em  all." 

"  Does  he — does  he  get  that  many  every  day?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess !  These  are  two  days'  mail,  but 
he  gets  an  awful  lot.  The  women  are  crazy  about 
him,  you  know — send  him  flowers  and  gold  match- 

108 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

safes,  and  scarf  pins  and  cuff  buttons,  and  what 
not." 

There  was  a  bluff  contempt  in  Ashley's  tone 
which  Felicity  was  not  shrewd  enough  to  under- 
stand. 

"  And  does  he — does  he  like  it?  " 

"  Why,  sure !  it's  a  kind  o'  nuisance  sometimes, 
but  I  guess  he  knows  that  it's  what  keeps  him  a 
leading  man.  Well,  ta-ta !  "  And  Ashley  was 
off,  turning  a  sudden  corner,  where  their  ways 
diverged. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Delano's  a  fine  actor,"  observed 
Felicity,  gravely,  "  and  I  don't  believe  he  likes 
those  horrid  letters." 

It  is  not  always  credible  to  an  outsider  how 
strange  players  in  the  same  company  may  be  to 
one  another.  Felicity  really  knew  as  little  about 
Vincent  Delano  as  the  average  city-bred  house- 
dweller  of  the  better  sort  knows  about  his  next- 
door  neighbors. 

Her  part  in  the  play  was  small;  indeed,  as  in 
most  companies  where  the  star  is  so  pre-eminent, 
none  of  the  other  parts  was  extremely  important, 
notwithstanding  Phineas's  fine  theories  about  the 
value  of  his  support.  When  Felicity  was  not  on, 
she  was  in  her  dressing-room  with  Amelia,  who 
never  let  her  go  to  the  theatre  alone.  In  this 
cluttered  box  of  a  place  which  she  had  to  herself 

109 


Felicity 

only  by  the  intervention  of  The  Old  Man,  they 
read,  practised  French  conversation,  sewed  or 
mended,  or  otherwise  employed  the  time. 

Vincent,  in  his  dressing-room  which  he  shared 
with  Ashley,  played  cards  or  shook  dice  or  read 
the  daily  and  weekly  papers,  or  even  took  cat  naps 
if  he  were  what  he  termed  "  short  on  sleep." 

When  he  and  Felicity  were  on  together,  they 
were  strictly  business;  when  they  met  and  passed 
in  the  wings  they  exchanged  nods  and  smiles,  some- 
times, and  at  rehearsals,  which  were  not  frequent, 
they  chatted,  now  and  then,  in  a  desultory  sort  of 
way. 

It  seldom  happened  that  they  went  to  the  same 
hotel  or  boarding-house,  but  if  they  did,  they  were 
as  little  likely  to  meet  as  if  they  were  under  differ- 
ent roofs.  And  when  the  company  was  travelling 
(which  was  nearly  always  by  night)  Vincent  was 
usually  either  sleeping  or  smoking.  Even  Miss 
Fessenden  Felicity  knew  but  slightly;  she  and  a 
Miss  Croftleigh,  who  played  old  woman  parts, 
were  chummy,  with  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
mutual  interest  in  stage  gossip  about  a  hundred 
persons  who  were  mere  names,  or  less,  to  Amelia 
and  Felicity. 

It  was  a  lonely,  almost  an  excessively  lonely  life 
the  two  Ferguses  led,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  would 
never  grow  used  to  its  lack  of  those  tender  ties  and 
associations  which  make  life  sweet  to  most  women. 

no 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

Amelia  had  never  known  many  intimates;  peo- 
ple did  not  get  intimate  with  the  Ferguses,  and  for 
the  most  part  the  Ferguses  had  not  cared.  Jane 
had  not,  surely;  nor  Robert,  who  was  too  repressed 
and  shy  for  success  in  social  intercourse,  and  knew 
it.  But  Amelia  had  always  cared.  She  had  a 
strongly  developed  social  instinct,  to  which  every- 
thing in  her  experience  had  contributed  denial. 

Now,  at  nearly  three  score  years,  she  had  ceased 
to  hope  for  a  life  rich  in  relationships,  and  such 
yearnings  as  she  had  for  the  common  lot  related 
to  places,  not  persons.  She  wanted  a  spot  she 
could  call  her  own — an  abiding-place — but  she 
knew  that  in  all  human  probability  she  would  never 
have  it. 

And  most  of  all  she  longed,  with  the  wistful 
longing  of  life's  afternoon  for  the  places  where 
it  knew  the  morning  shine,  for  the  four-square 
house  on  Federal  Street,  for  the  black  horse-hair 
suit  in  the  chill-looking,  whitewashed  parlor  with 
the  "  Covenanters  Worshipping  in  a  Cave  "  look- 
ing down  from  the  wall. 

But  the  old  house  belonged  to  strangers,  now, 
and  was  full  of  romping  children.  And  out  in 
the  Millville  Cemetery,  where  Felicity  had  been 
made  to  promise  that  Amelia  should  lie  some  day, 
the  turf  was  sunken  on  Jane  Fergus's  grave. 

There  was  one  little  incident  of  that  winter 
Felicity  never  forgot.  They  were  playing  a  pretty 

in 


Felicity 

long  series  of  one-night  stands  and  everybody  was 
fagged  and  more  or  less  out  of  sorts  when  they 
reached  a  small  southern  town  one  bleak  morning 
about  six  o'clock.  Morton  seldom  played  this 
outlying  circuit,  but  there  had  been  an  enormous 
demand  for  him,  and  he  was  trying  to  meet  it,  as 
it  was  certain  he  would  not  pass  this  way  again. 
And  he  had  a  romantic  satisfaction  in  these  tri- 
umphs, for  over  this  ground  he  had  played  in  some 
of  his  most  despairing  days. 

The  night  before,  they  had  been  obliged  to  catch 
a  train  at  12  .'45,  after  a  performance  on  which  the 
curtain,  owing  to  some  unavoidable  delay,  did  not 
rise  until  nearly  nine.  Set  by  set  as  it  served  its 
purpose,  the  scenery -was  taken  down  and  carted 
to  the  train,  and  at  the  last  there  was  a  mad 
scramble  to  get  effects  together  and  trunks  packed, 
so  that  most  of  the  company  still  wore  stage- 
paint  when  they  tumbled,  wearily,  into  the  station 
at  a  quarter  to  one,  with  the  prospect  of  changing 
cars  at  four  o'clock.  Special  trains  for  theatrical 
companies  were  then  unheard  of. 

At  six,  on  a  chill,  gray  morning,  they  arrived  in 
a  town  whose  one  fair-to-middling  hotel  had  re- 
cently burned,  so  that  they  were  driven,  for  shelter, 
to  several  small  and  no  less  than  wretched  hostelries 
where  hard  beds  and  damp  sheets  were  not  enough 
to  keep  the  exhausted  actors  longer  awake. 

About  ten  o'clock  Felicity  woke  to  find  that 
112 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

Amelia  had  been  up  and  stirring  for  some  time  and 
had,  undaunted  by  the  utter  meanness  of  their 
room,  made  her  usual  effort  to  give  it,  even  if  only 
for  a  few  hours,  some  look  of,  as  she  said,  "  a 
decent  woman's  abiding-place." 

She  had  unpacked  their  hand  satchels  and 
arranged  their  little  toilet  necessities  on  bureau 
and  washstand;  had  shoved  the  blatant  cuspidor 
out  of  sight,  and  hung  up  on  wall-pegs  their  hats 
and  wraps,  and  laid  out,  ready  for  wear,  Felicity's 
slippers  and  dressing-gown. 

These  things  done,  she  sat  down  by  the  window 
to  read.  They  never  failed  to  carry  a  good  book 
or  two  with  them,  and  whatever  else  Amelia 
brought  or  left,  she  was  seldom  without  her  worn, 
two-volume  copy  of  the  "Life  and  Letters  of 
Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,"  published  under  the  di- 
rection of  Emerson  and  Channing  in  1852.  This 
was  almost  a  Bible  to  her,  and  in  the  same  spirit  in 
which  she  might  have  taken  up  the  Bible  she  had 
gone,  now,  to  this  outpouring  of  the  heart  of  that 
wonderful,  wistful  woman  who  was  willing  to 
adventure  so  bravely  in  her  quest  for  the  highest 
altitudes  of  love. 

She  closed  the  book  as  Felicity  arose,  marking 
her  place  with  a  bit  of  paper. 

"  I'm  dressed,  so  I'll  go  down  and  see  what  I 
can  do  about  some  breakfast,"  she  said.  "  There's 
no  such  thing  here  as  bell  service." 


Felicity 


She  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  when  Felicity 
had  washed  as  well  as  she  could  in  a  basin  of 
cold  water,  and  donned  her  loose  gown  and  slip- 
pers, she  sat  down  at  the  window  in  her  aunt's 
vacated  chair,  smiling  a  little  sadly  at  the  shabby 
volume  with  its  worn  black  binding. 

Picking  it  up,  she  opened  to  her  aunt's  place 
as  indicated  by  the  marker,  and  her  eye  fell  on  these 
words : 

"  There  comes  a  consciousness  that  I  have  no 
real  hold  on  life — no  real,  permanent  connection 
with  any  soul.  ...  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall 
go  through  this  destiny.  I  can,  if  it  is  mine;  but 
I  do  not  feel  that  I  can." 

"  I  wonder  why  Aunt  Elie  likes  to  read  this 
book  so  much,"  the  girl  pondered,  "  it  makes  me 
feel  so  sad." 

She  was  putting  the  marker  back  when  she 
noticed  its  look  of  age  and  the  faded  ink  of  the 
writing  it  bore,  so  she  picked  it  up  again  for  a 
closer  scrutiny.  It  was  headed  "  Rules  for  Right 
Living,"  and  in  Amelia's  younger  and  firmer  hand- 
writing was  a  schedule  for  what  she  had  evidently 
thought  an  ideal  day. 

"Six,  arise,"  it  said;  "six  to  six-thirty,  bathe 
and  dress;  six-thirty  to  seven,  morning  reading 
and  reflection;  seven,  breakfast;  seven-thirty,  morn- 

114 


Vincent  Does  a  Gallant  Thing 

ing  prayers;  eight  to  ten,  household  duties;  ten  to 
twelve,  reading,  study  and  correspondence ;  twelve, 
dinner;  one  to  three,  visit  the  sick  and  needy,"  and 
so  on. 

While  she  was  reading  it,  Amelia  returned. 

"What's  this?"  she  asked. 

Amelia  flushed  a  little,  and  laughed.  "  A  relic 
of  my  proper  young  ladyhood,"  she  said.  "  I  had 
just  laid  down  those  rules  for  myself  when  I  got 
this  book,  and  I  kept  them  in  it.  Every  time  I 
see  them  they  stir  up  such  tender  recollections  of 
'  all  I  aspired  to  be  '  that  I  can  never  bear  to  throw 
them  away  or  put  them  elsewhere." 

u  Darling  Aunt  Elie !  "  Felicity  cried — woe- 
begone with  the  discomforts  of  their  situation  and 
realizing  in  a  degree  she  had  not  felt  before  what 
those  discomforts  must  mean  to  Amelia,  "  how 
you  love  the  orderly  quiet  life  you  left  for  me! 
And,  oh!  I'm  afraid  it  hasn't  been  worth  the  sacri- 
fice !  The  game  hasn't  been  worth  the  candle !  " 

"  Yes,  it  has,  dear,"  soothed  the  woman,  holding 
the  girl  to  her  and  not  knowing,  as  Phineas  would 
have  known,  that  Felicity's  tears  were,  inevitably, 
more  in  self-pity  than  in  compassion,  "  yes,  it  has, 
dear.  It's  always  worth  the  candle  to  have  played 
the  game,  I  guess — whether  one  wins  or  loses.  But 
we're  going  to  win,"  she  finished,  with  such  con- 
viction that  Felicity  believed  her. 


CHAPTER    IX 

"  THE    BIG    OPEN    ROAD,    WHERE    THE    PASSPORT 
IS    SYMPATHY  " 

VINCENT  DELANO  sat  at  his  dressing- 
table,  chin  in  hands  and  elbows  on  the  table, 
moodily  reflectful.  He  was  not  altogether  pleased 
with  life  today,  though  evidences  of  his  popularity 
lay  thick  about  him.  Perfumed  notes  strewed  the 
floor  like  leaves  in  autumn;  of  bouquets,  very  ele- 
gant in  their  lace-paper  frills,  he  had  no  fewer  than 
a  baker's  dozen  ("bad  luck!  "  he  had  growled, 
with  an  actor's  ready  superstition,  when  the  thir- 
teenth came;  no  use,  then,  to  order  it  out — some- 
thing was  after  him!)  and  in  the  heap  of  their 
tissue-paper  wrappings,  and  other  rubbish,  were 
a  lot  of  silly  girls'  and  women's  photographs,  torn, 
each,  in  several  bits,  for  Vincent  was  decently 
scrupulous.  That  these  women  had  no  self- 
respect  never  made  him  unchivalrous  toward  them, 
whatever  his  secret  contempt  of  their  folly. 

A  small  table  at  his  right  was  littered  with  poker 
chips,  cards,  cigar  ashes,  and  two  drained  glasses 
stood  by  a  half-emptied  bottle  of  rye  whiskey.  The 

116 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

narrow  shelf  in  front  of  him  bore  a  disorder  of 
make-up  materials  and  toilet  articles  of  a  dandi- 
fied elegance — gifts  of  tribute,  mostly. 

Nevertheless,  Vincent  scowled  darkly  at  the 
debonair  gentleman  in  the  mirror,  whose  long, 
curling  black  lashes  scarcely  needed  the  accentua- 
tion of  a  pencil  any  more  than  his  naturally  ruddy 
coloring  really  needed  the  offices  of  paint. 

Nature  had  designed  Vincent  for  just  such  a 
role  as  he  was  filling.  Those  great  Irish-blue  eyes 
and  that  dark,  wavy  hair  were  never  intended  to 
adorn  a  sardonic  temperament.  Vincent  was  made 
to  gamble  and  to  flirt,  to  sing  merrily  and  spend 
freely,  to  be  generous  yet  selfish — which  is  to  say, 
open-handed  but  vain. 

"  Dog-gone  it!  "  he  muttered,  putting  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets  and  stretching  his  long 
length  as  far  under  the  table  as  it  would  go. 

The  occasion  for  this  momentary  dissatisfaction 
with  life  was  an  interview  Vincent  had  had,  a  half 
hour  ago,  with  Miss  Fessenden. 

There  was  a  flirtation  on  between  the  leading 
lady  and  the  juvenile  lead.  It  wasn't  serious,  but 
it  was  fairly  beguiling.  When  one  is  knocking 
around  the  world,  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow, 
it  is  comfortable  to  have  some  one  of  mutual  inter- 
ests, with-whom  to  take  bite  and  sup  now  and  then 
in  the  absence  of  any  royal  entertainer  who  com- 
bines the  virtues  of  congeniality  and  willingness 

117 


Felicity 


to  foot  the  bill;  some  one  with  whom  to  go  to  the 
races,  if  there  are  any,  or  even  to  the  art  museum, 
if  worst  comes  to  worst  in  a  dull  town. 

Vincent  played  poker  and  billiards  with  Jack 
Ashley,  and  played  at  being  interested  in  Miss 
Fessenden — not  because  he  particularly  admired 
her,  but  because  she  was  there  and  the  choice  was 
not  great;  Miss  Croftleigh  was  peculiarly  dis- 
agreeable to  him,  and  little  Felicity  was  "  not  his 
sort  at  all,"  as  he  put  it.  Still,  since  that  night  in 
Cincinnati,  Vincent  could  not  help  showing  a  de- 
cent kindliness  to  the  little  ingenue  who  so  sweetly 
worshipped  him.  Heaven  knew  he  did  nothing  to 
encourage  her,  but  one  need  not  be  a  brute !  To- 
day, though,  Editha  Fessenden  had  taunted  him 
about  Felicity.  It  was  her  pet  reproach  to  call 
him  a  "  curled  darling."  This  afternoon,  after  a 
failure  on  Vincent's  part  to  measure  up  to  her 
expectations  of  ardent  interest,  she  had  had  re- 
course to  her  favorite  upbraiding. 

"  Oh,  very  well !  "  she  had  flung  at  him,  hotly, 
"  it's  no  more  than  I  might  have  looked  for  from 
you.  To  get  on  with  you,  now,  one  must  crawl 
on  all  fours  and  lick  your  hand  like  a  dog.  But 
you'll  get  none  o'  that  from  me!  My  name's  not 
Felicity  Fergus !  " 

''What  d'ye  mean?"  Vincent  feigned  a  sur- 
prise outweighing  resentment. 

"  Huh !  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean. 
118 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

But  you  can't  get  any  o'  that  round-eyed  worship 
out  o'  me!  You  never  ignored  an  attack  of  neu- 
ralgia to  help  me,  on  a  pinch,  y'  know !  " 

And  with  that  she  had  left  him  in  a  petty  rage 
the  public  little  suspected  when  it  saw  them  to- 
gether in  their  principal  love  scene,  a  few  minutes 
later. 

Now,  in  the  first  quiet  moment  he  had  had,  Vin- 
cent was  trying  to  recapitulate. 

Pshaw!  Editha  Fessenden  couldn't  sting  him 
with  her  jealous  rages.  But  it  was  a  shame  that 
Felicity's  little  girlish  fancy  should  be  obvious  to 
a  woman  like  Editha.  "  It's  all  right  for  me  to 
know  it,"  Vincent  told  himself;  "  I  understand 
what  it's  worth.  She — why,  she's  no  more  than 
a  child,  a  baby.  I'm  flattered  by  her  liking,  same 
as  I  am  when  a  youngster  likes  me,  or  a  dog,  or  a 
kitten — It  makes  me  feel  kind  of  as  if  there  must 
be  something  good  inside  me.  And  I  know  it 
won't  hurt  her,  for  I  won't  let  it — no  sir!  I  may 
be  a  '  curled  darling,'  but  I  know  what's  the  decent 
thing  to  do,  and  I  do  it!  But  Editha  Fessenden 
could  hurt  her  so  she'd  never  get  over  it — yes,  and 
she  will,  too,  some  o'  these  days,  if  she  gets  a 
chance;  some  day  when  I  don't  dance  to  suit  her, 
she'll  take  it  out  on  that  child.  By  George!  It's 
a  shame!  Confound  her!" 

"  Your  scene,  Mr.  Delano,"  said  the  call  boy, 
rapping.  And  still  pondering — a  most  unusual 

119 


Felicity 


occupation  for  him — Vincent  strode  out,  banging 
the  door  to  behind  him. 

Felicity  was  standing  in  the  wings.  She  had  an 
exit  and  an  entrance  so  close  together  that  it  did 
not  pay  to  go  back  to  her  dressing-room  for  the 
interval. 

"  I've  something  to  tell  you,"  she  whispered,  as 
he  waited  beside  her  for  his  cue. 

"All  right."    He  nodded,  smiling,  and  went  on. 

Her  eyes,  smiling  back  at  him,  were  so  sweetly 
worshipful  that  Vincent  forgot  to  be  flattered  in 
thinking  how  liable  to  hurt  the  innocent  ingenuous- 
ness of  this  thing  made  her.  Something  vague 
stirred  his  memory,  something  about  an  actor  who 
was  past  master  of  the  decent  thing  to  do.  Who 
was  it?  Oh,  yes — Garrick!  He'd  seen  Sothern 
play  it.  Ought  a  fellow  to  do  something  like 
that? 

One  of  the  things  that  contributed  most  to  Vin- 
cent's happiness  was  his  ability  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  himself.  His  code  might  not  have  been 
altogether  an  intelligible  one  to  a  good  many  peo- 
ple, but  it  satisfied  him  thoroughly  and  gave  him 
as  much  pleasure  when  he  lived  up  to  it  as  if  it 
had  been  a  great  deal  more  elaborate  and  more 
reasonable.  He  liked  himself  for  the  handsome- 
ness of  his  attitude  toward  Felicity — liked  himself 
so  well  that  he  forgot  his  irritation  of  a  few  mo- 
ments before,  and  when  he  came  off  from  his 

120 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

scene  he  was  in  high  good  humor  on  account  of 
what  he  meant  to  do. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  Felicity,  when 
they  were  both  at  leisure  for  a  few  minutes. 
"Good  news?" 

"  No — funny  news.  I've  had  an  offer  to  head 
a  company." 

"What?" 

'  To  head  a  company — to  play  Lady  Macbeth 
and  Fanchon  the  Cricket  and  Meg  Merrilies  and 
The  New  Magdalen  and — and  other  assorted 
roles,  in  Medicine  Hat  and  Hushpuckena  and  Dead 
Men's  Gulch." 

Her  eyes  were  so  full  of  shine  and  her  voice 
was  so  full  of  quaver  that  Vincent  did  not  know, 
for  a  moment,  whether  she  was  insulted  or  elated. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  neither,  but  excited  to 
be  talking  to  him,  and  trembling  with  the  hope  that 
he  would  cry,  "Don't  go!"  Instead,  he  remarked: 

"  That  'd  be  bully  training,  you  know." 

"  I  know;  but  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  because— I'd  hate  to  leave  The  Old 
Man." 

Vincent  could  hardly  keep  from  smiling  at  the 
child's  lack  of  artifice,  but  he  ignored  the  telltale 
look  in  her  eyes,  the  tremulous  little  quivering  at 
the  corners  of  the  lovely  mouth,  and  professed  to 
take  her  remark  seriously. 

121 


Felicity 


"  Oh,  he  wouldn't  want  you  to  let  that  stand  in 
your  way." 

"No,  I  know;  but " 

"Ah!"  banteringly,  "but  you're  afraid  he 
won't  get  on  without  you !  " 

Felicity  smiled,  and  Vincent  remarked  to  him- 
self that  she  looked  so  pretty  when  she  smiled  it 
was  a  pity  she  did  not  do  it  oftener.  Then,  smitten 
with  a  sudden  inspiration  of  "  the  decent  thing  to 
do,"  he  said: 

"  Don't  you  think  we'll  forget  you  if  you  go. 
Tell  you  what  I'll  do,  if  you  want  me  to:  I'll  write 
you  a  letter  every  week  and  keep  you  posted  on 
all  that's  happening." 

"Will  you?" 

The  eagerness  of  her  tone  made  Vincent  very 
gratified  to  have  been  so  magnanimous,  for  he 
hated  to  write  letters,  and  in  a  glow  of  fine  feeling 
he  held  out  his  hand.  "  Let's  call  it  a  bargain," 
he  said. 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  said  Felicity,  half  happy  and 
half  heart-broken,  with  the  broken-heartedness  of 
sixteen  in  love. 

Now,  in  consultation  with  Phineas  and  Amelia, 
Felicity  had  exhibited  a  not  unnatural  disinclina- 
tion to  accept  the  offer  made  her  so  unexpectedly. 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  ever  came  to  pick  you  for 
the  purpose,"  said  Phineas,  untruthfully,  for  he 
knew  all  about  it — had  had  a  hand  in  it — "  for 

122 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

you're  not  altogether  a  likely  lookin'  chicken,  yet, 
and  don't  suggest,  to  me  at  least,  the  average  lead- 
ing lady  of  the  frontier  circuit.  But  there's  no 
doubt  in  the  world  that  it's  an  opportunity  for  you, 
and  will  do  more  toward  the  making  of  you  than 
a  whole  lifetime  of  playing  polite  little  roles  in  a 
company  like  mine.  If  I  live  longer  'n  I  have  any 
right  to  expect,  and  keep  on  acting,  I  might  be 
able  to  give  you  Miss  Fessenden's  place  in  a  couple 
o'  years  or  so.  But  that's  the  best  I  could  ever  do 
for  you,  and  it  would  never  help  you  to  be  a  great 
comedienne.  You  know  what  I've  told  you  about 
Dick  Sheridan  and  Goldsmith  and  Balzac  and 
Moliere  and  other  folks  who  knew  the  human 
comedy.  You  know  the  school  they  learned  it  in. 
Well,  you  can't  learn  the  same  lessons  in  any  other 
school.  If  you're  going  to  be  anybody,  you've  got 
to  get  out  and  be  it.  If  you're  going  to  delineate 
life,  you've  got  to  get  out  where  life's  elemental 
and  you  can  learn  the  A  B  C's  of  it." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Felicity,  who  had  seen 
something  of  the  terrors  of  the  road  this  season, 
"  that  I  want  to  be  anybody,  after  all." 

'  Yes,"  commented  Phineas,  dryly,  "  we  all  feel 
that  way  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  It's  a  lot  o' 
trouble,  this  being  somebody,  but  those  that  can 
be,  don't  often  quit,  and  those  that  can't  be,  never 
leave  off  wishing  they  could.  Nobody's  satisfied, 
that  I  can  find  out,  but  those  that  come  nearest  to 

123 


Felicity 

it  are  the  folks  who  have  never  tried  to  be  any- 
body, yet  feel  sure  they  could  have  been  anything 
they'd  had  a  mind  to.  If  what  you  want  is  satis- 
faction, you'd  better  quit  right  now,  and  live  out 
your  days  in  the  smug  conviction  that  you  could 
have  been  a  great  comedienne  if  you'd  taken  the 
trouble." 

The  subtlety  of  this  advice  was  beyond  Felicity, 
but  she  winced  under  its  irony. 

"  I'll  think  about  it,"  she  said,  soberly,  as  she 
went  her  way. 

That  evening  Amelia  watched  for  an  opportu- 
nity to  speak  to  Phineas.  Sometimes  for  a  week 
at  a  time  she  and  Felicity  would  see  him  at  the 
theatre  only,  and  would  have  no  more  conversation 
with  him  than  with  any  other  person  in  the  com- 
pany. Again,  there  might  be  several  times  in  a 
week  when  he  would  take  them  to  dine  or  lunch 
with  him,  or  would  come  from  his  hotel  to  their 
modest  boarding-house  and  get  Felicity  for  a  ram- 
ble or  a  visit  to  some  place  of  interest,  or  take  her 
with  him  to  some  function  given  in  his  honor  and 
— usually — to  his  immense  boredom  unless  he  had 
Felicity  with  him  to  see  the  comedy  of  the  thing 
with  his  eyes. 

Lately,  he  seemed  to  have  been  bear-hunting, 
as  he  called  it,  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  Twice 
within  a  week,  Amelia  knew,  the  curtain  had  been 
held  until  half-past  eight  because  Phineas  could 

124 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

not  be  found  until  nearly  that  hour.  He  was 
never  the  least  shamefaced  about  these  delinquen- 
cies, but  would  say  quite  frankly,  with  his  delicious, 
whimsical  smile,  that  "  the  name  of  the  bear  was 
*  Jack-pot,'  "  or  "  John  Barleycorn,"  or  "  Fast  and 
Furious,"  and  remark  whether  "  I  got  him  "  or 
"  he  got  me." 

"  Ten  to  one  on  '  Fast  and  Furious,'  and  made 
a  hundred,"  he'd  call  in  cheerily  to  Delano  and 
Ashley,  as  he  passed  their  dressing-room,  half  an 
hour  late.  Or,  "  Just  lost  two  hundred  and  fifty 
on  a  full  house,  queens  high ;  that's  what  comes  o' 
betting  on  the  ladies !  " 

Amelia's  attitude  toward  these  things  she  was 
born  and  bred  to  abhor,  was  interesting  in  the 
extreme.  Nothing  in  the  roughness  of  the  road 
ever  tempted  her  for  an  instant  to  "  travel  easy," 
but  while  she  still  held  certain  things  as  unper- 
missibJe  as  ever  for  herself,  she  was  no  longer  per- 
suaded that  every  one  who  practised  those  things 
was  wholly  culpable.  She  regretted  Phineas's 
"  bears,"  but  she  not  only  had  by  now  a  firm  con- 
viction in  his  goodness  immesurably  outweighing 
his  badness,  she  even  had  some  apprehension  of 
his  goodness  being  in  a  mysterious  alchemy  of 
human  nature  an  outcome  of  his  badness,  or 
t'other  way  round,  and  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand for  the  first  time  in  her  life  why  God  so 
often  chooses  faulty  men  for  His  big  purposes. 

125 


Felicity 


Phineas  Morton  had  altered  for  her  not  only  the 
whole  world  that  was,  but  the  world  that  had  been, 
and  had  given  her  a  comprehending  delight  in  a 
thousand  great  fellowships  she  could  never  have 
enjoyed  but  for  him.  The  world-old  anomalies 
of  his  character  served  an  interpretative  purpose 
for  her  in  a  long  range  of  human  complexities 
from  Adam  to  Goethe;  she  knew  them  all  better 
for  having  known  The  Old  Man. 

"  I'm  worried  about  Felicity,"  she  told  him 
when  she  had  managed  to  find  him  alone. 

"What  about  her?" 

"  Why "  Amelia  had  the  spinster  delicacy 

about  such  things,  and  she  flushed  a  little  as  she 
answered,  "  I  think  she's  in  love." 

Phineas  threw  back  his  head  and  roared — a 
thing  he  seldom  did,  for  his  humor  was  essentially 
of  the  quiet  kind  and  expressed  itself  more  readily 
in  chuckles  than  in  roars.  But  Amelia  was  so 
funny  in  her  very  real  concern  that  he  laughed 
uproariously. 

"  The  deuce  you  do !  "  he  exclaimed,  tearful 
with  amusement.  "  And  what  else  should  she  be, 
at  sixteen,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

11  How  can  a  girl  of  sixteen  know  what  love  is?  " 

"  She  can't,  dear  lady,  she  can't !  But  there'll 
never  be  another  time  in  her  life  when  she'll  be  so 
sure  she  does  know.  And,  mercy  me !  they've  got 
to  live  through  it,  same  as  measles.  Who's  he?  " 

126 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

"  Mr.  Delano.  She  sleeps  with  his  picture  under 
her  pillow." 

"  Bully!   That'll  do  her  a  world  o'  good." 

"  I  can't  see  how.  It  looks  to  me  as  if  she  were 
breaking  her  heart  about  him." 

"  Well,  what  of  it?  Isn't  it  the  chief  business 
of  sweet  sixteen  to  break  its  heart  about  somebody? 
And  isn't  it  the  lifelong  business  of  an  actress  to 
keep  her  heart  broken,  somehow  or  other?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  that  it  was." 

"  Well,  take  my  word  for  it.  Women  at  ease 
with  their  hearts — if  there's  any  such  thing — never 
do  anything.  If  Felicity's  going  to  be  a  great 
comedienne  she's  got  to  break  her  heart,  not  once, 
but  a  good  many  times,  and  it's  none  too  soon  to 
begin.  There's  no  comedy  in  life  more  than  a 
hair's  breadth  removed  from  tears,  and  all  the 
best  laughs  the  world  has  ever  raised  have  been 
raised  by  men — and  a  few  women — who  knew 
sorrow  better  'n  they  knew  joy.  I  don't  deny  the 
very  real  suffering  of  sixteen  in  hopeless  love.  But, 
Ephraim  Manasseh!  there's  nothing  in  life  more 
delicious  than  recalling  those  pangs,  afterwards, 
and  watching  other  young  things  in  the  throes. 
No  one  ought  to  miss  that  vital  part  of  his  educa- 
tion. As  between  college  and  calf  love,  I  always 
say  a  man  may  be  a  good  deal  of  a  man  without 
college,  but  without  calf  love — never!  " 

Amelia  felt,  as  she  often  did  in  talking  with 
127 


Felicity 

Phineas,  a  great  self-pity  for  the  rigid  restrictions 
of  those  early  years  when  she,  too,  might  have  been 
suffering  and  enjoying  things  that  would  have  given 
her  an  active  membership  in  the  everlasting  com- 
pany playing  the  comedie  humaine.  Those  starved 
years  were  doubly  pitiful,  for  they  not  only  passed 
without  eventfulness,  but  they  had  left  her  with- 
out recollections — such  recollections  as  she  ought 
to  have  had  to  make  her  kin  with  the  majority. 

"Then  you  wouldn't  do  anything  about  it?" 
she  asked,  less  anxiously. 

"  Not  a  thing  in  the  world,  unless  to  encourage 
it — though,  of  course,  opposition's  the  likeliest 
way  to  do  that.  Delano's  an  ideal  object  for  those 
sighs  which  are  as  developing  to  character  as  a 
baby's  crying  is  to  its  lungs.  He's  a  decent  chap, 
and  he's  safe.  Oh,  Lordy!  he's  safe,  all  right! 
He's  bored  to  death  with  sweet  sixteen — though 
he  wouldn't  wish  not  to  be,  of  course !  " 

It  was  after  this  that  Vincent  gave  his  fillip  to 
the  situation  and  Felicity  exhibited,  all  of  a  sudden, 
a  mysterious  willingness  to  go  on  that  far  adventur- 
ing. She  was  to  begin  rehearsing  in  Boston,  in 
August,  and  in  September  would  start  for  the  far 
western  and  southwestern  circuit,  playing  reper- 
toire. 

Phineas  tried  his  best  to  persuade  Amelia  to  let 
the  girl  go  alone,  but  she  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  How'll  she  ever  know  if  she  can  swim,"  he 
128 


"The  Big  Open  Road" 

asked,   "  if  you  keep  a   life-preserving  aunt  tied 
around  her  waist  all  the  time?  " 

"  How  do   I   know  she  won't  drown  without 
learning?"  retorted  Amelia. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you're  right,"  said  The  Old 
Man,  "  perhaps  you're  right.  God  knows  it's  a 
rough  life  out  there,  but  what  I'm  afraid  of  for  her 
is  not  that  she'll  get  rough,  but  that  she  won't  learn 
to  see  through  the  roughness  to  the  worth  that's 
always  underneath.  To  be  perfectly  frank  with 
you,  dear  lady,  I'm  afraid  that  without  meaning 
to,  you'll  make  her  supercilious  about  the  human 
nature  she'll  be  brought  in  contact  with;  that  you'll 
keep  her  aloof  and  read  Emerson  to  her,  instead 
of  letting  her  rub  along  cheek  by  jowl  with  human- 
ity as  she  finds  it  in  those  unvarnished  outposts. 
Of  course  it's,  a  fly-by-night  existence  and  you  never 
strike  root  anywhere,  but  even  in  flight  you  can 
learn  things,  if  you  will.  Now,  I  don't  want  Fe- 
licity to  lose  contact  with  civilization,  out  yonder, 
but  I  want  you  to  promise  me,  cross-your-heart-and- 
hope-to-die-if-you-don't-do-it,  that  you'll  so  far  for- 
get Federal  Street  as  to  keep  in  mind  that  although 
Felicity  was  born  there,  she  has  elected  to  be  a  child 
of  the  road,  the  big  open  road,  where  the  passport 
is  sympathy  and  understanding,  not  criticism  of  the 
way  the  other  travellers  limp  along  on  tired  feet 
or  dance  for  paltry  joys.  I  want  her  to  learn 
to  see  past  all  the  surface  things  to  the  thing  that 

129 


Felicity- 
matters  in  each  fellow-creature.  I've  put  in  seventy 
years  at  that,  and  I  know  it's  worth  while.  I'd 
give  her  my  knowledge  for  a  heritage  if  I  could, 
but  it  wouldn't  do  her  any  good.  More  than  any 
other  kind  o'  knowledge,  it's  the  seeking  of  it 
that  counts  for  most.  My  heartbreaks  won't  help 
her  much,  nor  will  yours.  Don't  forget  that, 
and  don't  try  to  deny  her  the  right  to  break  her  own 
heart." 

"  I  won't,"  promised  Amelia,  knowing  full  well 
how  hard  the  promise  would  be  to  keep,  but  mean- 
ing to  keep  it. 


130 


PART    II 

TWELVE    YEARS    LATER 


CHAPTER    X 

ALL   THAT   GLITTERS    IS    NOT    HAPPINESS 

"  T  TGH !  what  a  day !  "  said  Felicity,  shivering 

\^J  and  withdrawing  deeper  into  her  fur 
wrappings,  even  in  the  heated  brougham. 

February  was  holding  high  carnival  of  horrors 
in  Chicago  where  a  gray  day  was  waning  into  early 
blackness.  The  sleety  rain  that  had  been  falling 
was  turned,  now,  into  slushy  snow  which  spattered 
in  big  blobs  against  everything,  melting  soon  after- 
wards and  adding  rapidly  to  the  ankle-depth  of 
icy  mire  through  which  horses  and  pedestrians 
splashed  forlornly. 

The  billboards  announcing  Felicity  Fergus  were 
soaked  until  they  wore  a  blistered  appearance,  and 
as  the  carriage  turned  into  Michigan  Avenue  Felic- 
ity noted  that  the  lake  was  indistinguishable  from 
the  pall  of  leaden  sky. 

She  had  played  in  Indianapolis  Saturday  and  had 
stayed  over  Sunday  to  rest  and  visit  friends,  her 
company  coming  on  by  an  early  train  Sunday 
morning. 

Her  personal  representative  had  met  her  at  the 

133 


Felicity- 
train,  seen  to  the  immediate  delivery  of  such  bag- 
gage as  she  had  with  her,  and  sent  her  maid  ahead 
in  a  cab  with  the  hand  satchels. 

"  Every  seat  sold  for  to-night,  though,  if  the 
weather  is  beastly,"  he  answered. 

"  I  think  you'll  find  everything  as  you  like  it," 
he  said  as  they  drew  up  to  the  hotel,  "  but  if  you 
don't,  we'll  soon  have  it  so.  My  room  is  841, 
and  I'll  stay  within  call  until  you  say  you  don't 
want  me — then  go  over  to  the  theatre." 

Celeste,  the  maid,  had  reached  the  rooms  not 
ten  minutes  before  Miss  Fergus,  but  was  already 
deftly  unpacking  dressing  cases  and  putting  things 
to  rights  when  Felicity  came,  and  when  Mr.  Lef- 
fler  opened  the  door  for  her  the  place  had  begun 
to  have  that  air  of  homeliness  which  luxury  so 
sadly  lacks  until  it  has  been  adapted. 

In  the  drawing-room  a  brilliant  fire  snapped  and 
sparkled,  and  drawn  up  before  it  was  a  big  easy- 
chair  and  a  tabourette  with  a  silver  tea  service 
and  a  bundle  of  letters.  For  the  rest,  the  room 
seemed  to  be  a  bower  of  flowers  which  had  been 
coming  all  day  and  which  Mr.  Leffler  had  disposed 
in  innumerable  vases  requisitioned  from  the  house- 
keeper. 

"  I've  left  the  cards  by  the  vases  until  you  saw 
them,"  he  said.  "  I'll  gather  them  up  and  write 
acknowledgments  whenever  you  say." 

*  To-morrow  will  do,  thank  you."     She  was 

134 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

moving  about  examining  the  cards  before  she  took 
her  tea.  Mr.  Leffler  had  seldom  seen  her  take 
so  much  interest  in  this  common  occurrence  of 
being  smothered  in  flowers. 

'  Wasn't  there  a  box  of  pink  roses?  "  she  asked, 
"  with  a  card  from  Mr.  Allston?  " 

"  I  put  them  in  yonder,"  he  answered,  indicating, 
with  a  nod  her  bedroom.  There,  on  her  dressing- 
table,  where  Celeste  had  her  array  of  glittering 
toilet  silver  spread  on  her  own  lace  scarf,  a  tall 
vase  of  splendid  La  France  roses  nodded  at  their 
reflection  in  the  big  mirror. 

"  Dear  old  Morton !  "  thought  Felicity,  "  dear 
old  *  killer  ' !  He's  a  friend;  these  other  people 
are  only  acquaintances.  I'd  have  been  disap- 
pointed if  he'd  forgoten  me." 

'  The  other  offerings  to  date,"  said  Mr.  Leffler, 
preparing  to  withdraw,  "are:  seven  varieties  of 
face  cream,  three  hair  tonics,  two  boxes  of  toilet 
soap,  a  new  breath  perfume,  and  a  patent  bath- 
mitt — all  '  come  early  to  avoid  the  rush  '  in  appli- 
cation for  your  indorsement." 

Felicity  laughed.  "  No  tooth  paste  or  pow- 
der?" she  said,  "not  a  single  reference  to  'the 
well-known  charms  of  my  celebrated  smile  '  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Dear  me !  Business  must  be  falling  off,  or  the 
press  agent  must  have  forgotten  something." 

"Oh,    they'll    come    all    right;    never    fear," 

135 


Felicity 


laughed  the  young  man  as  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

Yes,  they  would  come!  Felicity  did  not  fear; 
she  had  no  hope  of  escaping  them.  What  The  Old 
Man  had  dreaded  had  abundantly  come  true:  her 
smile  was  famous  in  two  continents,  and  she  had 
grown  so  unutterably  sick  of  hearing  about  it  that 
she  felt  sure  the  whole  world  must  be  sick  of  it 
too.  Public  clamor  about  her  charm  had  robbed 
it  of  nearly  all  its  subtlety,  but  she  had  now  grown 
shrewd  enough  to  know  that  only  an  infinitesimal 
part  of  the  public  cares  for  subtlety,  anyway,  and 
kind  enough  to  recognize  that  the  intent  in  praising 
her  was  good  even  if  the  results  were,  to  her 
notion,  pretty  dreadful.  She  winced  under  praise 
far  oftener  than  she  glowed  under  it,  but  so  did 
every  one,  presumably. 

An  hour  later,  refreshed  by  her  tea  and  her  bath, 
she  was  resting,  before  eating  a  light  dinner,  when 
her  maid  answered  a  knock  at  the  door  and  brought 
her  a  note  in  a  card  envelope. 

The  pencil  scrawl  on  the  card  was  almost  illegi- 
ble in  its  wavering  uncertainty,  but  she  made  out: 

"  I  am  very  ill.     Can  you  come  to  me  ? 

"ADELAIDE  WALTERS." 

"  Tell  Miss  Walters  '  Yes,'  "  she  called,  past 
Celeste,  to  the  page,  "  what  number  is  her  room  ?  " 
'  Ten  hundred  and  twelve,"  said  the  boy,  with 
136 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

the  air  so  quickly  acquired  by  menials  in  a  big  hos- 
telry when  referring  to  a  cheap  room. 

"  I'll  be  there  directly,"  Felicity  sent  word. 

When  Celeste  had  feed  him  and  closed  the  door, 
Felicity  looked  inquiringly  at  her  array  and  then 
at  the  maid. 

"  I  can't  go  through  the  halls  like  this,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  wait  till  I  dress." 

"  Madame  can  wear  this,"  said  the  woman, 
returning  from  the  bedroom  with  a  long,  envelop- 
ing black  silk  cloak  which  she  laid  about  Felicity 
over  her  negligee. 

"  Shall  I  accompany  Madame?  " 

"  No.    And  I'll  not  be  long.    I  can't  be !  " 

Adelaide  Walters  was  playing  an  old  woman 
part  in  the  Fergus  company.  In  her  day  she  had 
"  played  many  parts,"  with  a  majority  of  the  lead- 
ing players  of  her  time,  and  had  been  a  much-feted 
woman.  Now  she  was  old,  and  the  generation  of 
play-goers  that  had  lauded  her  prime  was  passed 
to  the  shelter  of  the  fireside,  or  to  a  more  restful 
shelter  still;  but  she  had  little  laid  up  for  her  old 
age,  and  even  if  she  had  had  much  more  the  habit 
of  the  road  was  strong  in  her  and  she  was,  on  the 
whole,  happier  wandering  than  she  could  have  been 
at  rest. 

One  of  the  few  indulgences  she  allowed  herself 
as  her  earning  ability  decreased  to  mere  livelihood, 

1,37 


Felicity- 


was  keeping  up  her  old  custom  of  staying  at  the 
same  hotel  with  the  star.  She  had  to  take  the 
cheapest  room,  and  more  often  than  not  ate  at 
dingy  little  cafes  and  restaurants  and  made  street 
cars  serve  where  cabs  had  once  been  thought  a 
necessity.  But  she  got  her  mail  at  the  best 
hotel  in  town  and  in  its  parlors  received  her  few 
friends  and  old-time  admirers;  and  her  pride  was 
kept  tolerably  alive  by  this  pitiful  little  pretence. 
She  would  have  had  more  sheer  comfort  and  a  deal 
more  companionship  in  an  actors'  boarding-house, 
but  it  was  her  little  pet  folly  to  despise  them,  and 
everybody  smiled  at  the  folly  and  thought  no  whit 
the  less  of  her  for  cherishing  it. 

Felicity  often  asked  the  old  lady  to  dinner, 
pleading  that  she  liked  to  "  reminisce  "  with  her 
about  The  Old  Man — which  was  perfectly  true — 
and  on  bad  nights  usually  contrived  to  get  Miss 
Walters  to  share  her  cab  to  and  from  the  theatre 
without  in  any  wise  suggesting  that  benevolence 
prompted  her. 

Indeed,  it  had  not  been  benevolence,  or  at  least 
only  faintly  that.  Felicity  was  kind,  but  she  was 
not  less  self-absorbed  than  most  accomplishers, 
and  she  did  not  always  remember  to  do  things 
because  they  ought  to  be  done;  the  things  she  did 
were  apt  to  be  the  things  she  wanted  to  do. 

This  winter  was  the  first  Aunt  Elie  had  not 
been  with  her.  The  sturdiness  with  which  that 

138 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

good  woman  had  kept  at  her  post  was  a  marvel, 
but  a  serious  valvular  affection  was  growing  on 
her  so  alarmingly  that  she  had  been  persuaded  to 
forswear  the  rigors  of  the  road  this  season  and 
stay  quietly  at  Briarwood.  Felicity,  in  her  for- 
lornness,  had  found  Adelaide  Walters  the  most 
satisfactory  refuge  among  all  her  travelling  com- 
panions and  had  been  cheered  and  soothed  a  good 
many  times  by  the  old  woman's  kindly  philosophy. 
It  was  in  very  real  distress,  then,  that  she  responded 
to  Miss  Walters's  call. 

Room  1012  was  on  the  top  floor  but  one;  only 
the  servants  slept  higher.  It  was  a  mean  little 
room,  long  and  narrow,  with  a  single  window 
looking  into  a  gray-bricked  court.  The  last  of  the 
dreary  daylight  had  not  quite  faded,  and  Miss 
Walters  was  lying  in  the  gloom,  dreading  the  turn- 
ing on  of  the  light,  which  hurt  her  eyes. 

It  was  her  habit,  when  she  was  well,  to  make 
a  cheerful  domicile  for  herself  in  a  few  moments, 
wherever  she  was  set  down.  She  had  a  little  sew- 
ing-basket which,  of  itself,  with  its  fat  tomato  pin- 
cushion and  its  flannel-leaved  needle-book,  its 
scissors  and  thimble  and  dried  garden  squash  for 
darning  over,  was  enough  to  make  a  place  look 
home-like.  But  yesterday  she  had  been  too 
wretched,  on  arriving,  to  unpack  anything  but  the 
barest  necessities. 

The  bureau,  with  an  ink-stained  towel  for  scarf, 

139 


Felicity 

bore  the  corrugated  china  match-safe  which  always 
represented,  to  Adelaide  Walters,  the  essence  of 
hotel  dreariness — it  seemed  so  inescapable.  Beside 
it  lay  her  "  switch  "  and  a  litter  of  hair  pins.  On  a 
chair  were  her  travelling  clothes,  removed  in  great 
haste,  for  she  could  hardly  wait  to  get  her  aching 
bones  to  bed;  and  on  the  floor  by  the  chair  were  her 
shoes  and  stockings  in  a  forlorn  little  huddle. 

The  whole  scene  smote  most  piteously  on  Felic- 
ity as  she  opened  the  door.  Involuntarily,  she 
dropped  her  black  cloak  and  stood,  a  spot  of 
vivid  color  in  that  gray  waste.  She  wore  a  negli- 
gee of  soft,  lustrous  silk  that  was  delicate  rose  in 
the  woof  and  silvery  gray  in  the  warp,  and  that 
seemed  to  shimmer  with  different  tones  and  lights 
with  every  move  she  made.  The  gown  was  exceed- 
ingly voluminous  and  swirled  about  her  in  a  glory 
of  tender  color,  the  "  angel  sleeves  "  falling  away 
from  her  beautiful  white  arms. 

It  was  the  artist  in  her  that  made  her  drop  her 
cloak,  instinctively,  and  lend  her  color-full  pres- 
ence to  this  dreary  room.  It  was  something  finer 
than  the  artist  sense  that  made  her  feel,  a  moment 
after,  the  blatant  cruelty  of  her  action.  She  had 
not  been  conscious  of  her  youth  and  strength  and 
success  when  she  entered  this  dingy  room  where 
age  and  weakness  and  decayed  powers  lay  prone 
in  the  last  ditch,  but  the  moment  she  was  in,  the 
cruelty  of  it  all  smote  her  and  she  felt  terribly  ill 

140 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

at  ease.  Her  beauty  and  her  brilliance  seemed  to 
her  an  affront  to  this  aged  distress,  and  she  had  a 
desire  to  be,  for  once,  something  better  qualified 
than  she  was  to  minister  to  this  woman  who  needed 
comfort  so. 

Miss  Walters  could  give  her  but  feeble  greet- 
ing, and  Felicity  went  over  and  sat  down  by  her 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed — partly  that  she  might  bet- 
ter hear  the  old  woman's  faint  tones  and  partly 
in  an  impulse  of  mute  comfort. 

A  withered,  stringy  brown  arm  lay  uncovered 
on  the  white  counterpane,  and  Felicity  picked  up 
the  fevered  hand  and  patted  it. 

"  How  are  you  feeling  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Badly,  dear,  pretty  badly.  The  doctor  says 
I've  pneumonia,  though  I'm  still  hoping  he's  mis- 
taken." 

Then  her  eyes  travelled,  for  the  first  time  since 
Felicity  had  entered  the  room,  from  the  lovely 
face  above  the  rosy  gown  and  fell  on  the  exquisite 
white  hand  patting  her  wrinkled,  age-colored  one, 
and  she  lifted  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  Felicity's 
rounded,  satiny  white  arm. 

"  I  had  arms  like  that,  once,"  she  said  softly, 
and  seemed  more  happy  in  the  reminiscence  than 
bitter  over  departed  charms. 

'Yes?"  encouraged  Felicity,  realizing,  some- 
how, what  a  tonic  this  recollection  was,  and  de- 
lighted to  help  by  her  interest. 

141 


Felicity 


"  Yes,  indeed.  They  were  much  celebrated  in 
my  day.  It  used  to  be  quite  a  joke  among  my 
friends  that  an  enthusiastic  young  reporter,  out 
West,  blossomed  into  verse,  one  day,  with  a  poem 
in  which  he  claimed  the  lost  arms  of  the  Venus 
of  Milo  were  found,  and  that  I  had  them.  I  had 
that  clipping  for  years,  but  I've  lost  it.  I  wish 
I  could  show  it  to  you." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  need  to  show  it  to  me,"  assured 
Felicity,  "  don't  you  suppose  I  know  all  about  it?  " 
More  by  her  manner  than  by  what  she  said  she  was 
stretching  a  very  little  truth  to  its  utmost  limits; 
but  she  was  rewarded  for  her  effort  by  the  smile 
of  gratification  that  overspread  Miss  Walters's 
age-lined  countenance. 

They  fell  to  talking  of  The  Old  Man,  then — 
or,  rather,  Felicity  talked  of  him  and  the  sick 
woman  followed  her  with  eager  interest,  interject- 
ing a  few  words  now  and  then  as  her  strength 
allowed — and  the  bright  talk  of  happy  days  was 
a  better  tonic  than  any  doctor  could  have  given. 

"  Now,"  said  Felicity,  as  she  got  up  to  go,  "  this 
may  be  only  a  cold,  as  we  hope,  but  I'm  going  to 
send  you  a  nurse,  because  you  must  have  some  one 
to  wait  on  you.  And  you're  not  to  worry  about 
your  part;  Miss  Burton  will  manage  very  well,  I'm 
sure."  Then,  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  she 
asked,  "  Is  there  any  one  you'd  like  me  to  send 
for?  If  it  should  turn  out  that  you  have  a  little 

142 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

pull  ahead  of  you,  it  would  be  cheerier  to  have 
some  '  own  folks,'  wouldn't  it?  " 

She  did  not  know  much  of  Miss  Walters's  per- 
sonal history  and  was  quite  unprepared  for  the  hag- 
gard look  which  immediately  came  over  the  old 
woman's  face. 

"  There's  no  one  to  send  for,"  she  said — the 
big,  self-pitying  tears  beginning  to  roll  slowly 
down  her  shrunken  cheeks — "  there's  no  one  to 
send  for!  Ah,  my  dear,  if  I  had  it  to  do  over 
again  I'd  live  my  life  differently;  I  wouldn't  come 
at  last  to  this — alone,  all  alone.  Don't  you  do  it, 
dear.  Give  up  something,  give  up  everything,  but 
have  some  one  to  belong  to,  some  one  whose  place 
is  with  you  when  the  world  you're  giving  yourself 
to  cannot  and  will  not  comfort  you.  I  don't  regret 
not  having  a  husband.  I  guess  I've  seen  too  much 
of  the  world  to  think  very  highly  of  husbands. 
But,  oh,  my  dear!  I  regret  not  having  a  child  so 
passionately  I  can  hardly  bear  to  die — to  die  with- 
out having  lived,  it  seems  to  me.  .  .  .  Now  you 
must  go,  dear.  You've  a  big  night  ahead  of  you, 
and  you  must  go  and  make  folks  laugh.  They've 
paid  their  money  to  see  you,  and  you  must  send 
them  away  smiling.  Try  not  to  think  of  me  to- 
night— try  not  to  remember  that  none  of  those 
who  smile  with  you  would  stand  hand  in  hand  with 
you  on — on  the  dreaded  brink.  But  some  time 
when  an  opportunity  comes  to  you  to  do  better  than 

143 


Felicity 

I  have  done,  think  of  me,  and  don't  let  your  youth 
go  and  leave  you  alone — like  me,  alone !  " 

For  answer,  Felicity  put  her  bright  head  on  the 
pillow  beside  the  gray  one  and  wept,  while  the 
wrinkled  hand  patted  her  white,  soft  hand  com- 
fortingly. 

"  There!  I'm  a  selfish  old  woman  to  put  such 
desolation  in  your  mind  when  you've  your  smiling 
work  ahead  of  you  and  all  the  world's  at  your  feet 
waiting  to  smile  with  you,"  she  said,  soothingly. 
"  Forgive  me,  and  dry  your  eyes.  I'll  lie  here  and 
reproach  myself  all  night  if  you  don't." 

So  Felicity  made  feint  of  being  comforted,  and 
gathering  her  black  cloak  around  her  hurried  back 
to  her  rooms,  where  her  dinner  was  waiting,  all 
daintily  set  out  on  a  small  table  before  the  blazing 
log  fire. 

Before  sitting  down  to  eat  she  despatched  to 
"1012"  a  tall  vase  of  Jacque  roses  and  a  big 
bunch  of  violets,  and  sent  word  to  Mr.  Leffler  to 
have  a  trained  nurse  take  charge  of  Miss  Walters 
without  delay.  She  wished  she  could  move  her  out 
of  that  cheerless  room  without  hurting  her  pride, 
but  knew  that  to  be  impossible. 

What  dinner  she  managed  to  eat  was  got 
through  with  in  a  deep  preoccupation. 

"  Bring  one  of  those  pink  roses,  Celeste,"  she 
said,  when  they  were  about  to  leave  for  the  theatre. 
"  I'll  wear  it  in  my  hair  in  the  first  act." 

144 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

When  she  went  on  for  the  first  act,  the  pink  rose 
in  her  hair,  the  applause  that  greeted  her  amounted 
to  a  triumph.  The  theatre  was  packed,  from 
orchestra  pit  to  topmost  gallery  seat,  but  Felicity's 
eyes  took  in  no  more  than  the  right-hand  stage  box 
where  she  saw,  as  she  had  hoped  to  see,  a  man's 
face  light  up  with  keen  pleasure  when  he  noticed 
the  pink  rose. 

She  was  playing  her  dual  role  in  Marianna,  the 
play  wherein  she  had  won  her  greatest  popular 
acclaim.  It  was  founded  on  an  old,  old  theme, 
which  is  ever  fresh  because  it  has  its  root  in  the 
wistfulness  of  each  of  us  to  be  that  we  are  not. 
Marianna  was  a  gypsy  girl,  famed  for  her  beauty 
and  for  her  resemblance  to  the  young  queen  of  her 
country.  Queen  Marie  had  heard  of  Marianna; 
Marianna  lived  on  the  current  stories  of  her  queen. 
Marianna  was  tired  of  being  a  gypsy  and  eager  to 
be  a  queen.  Marie  was  very  tired  of  being  a  queen 
and  wistful  to  be  gypsy-free.  The  exchange  was 
effected — and  Marianna,  of  course,  fretted  might- 
ily under  the  restraints  of  queening,  while  Marie 
as  soon  tired  of  the  gypsy  freedom.  The  noblesse 
oblige  that  was,  after  all,  paramount  in  the  queen, 
sent  her  back  to  her  responsibilities;  the  lawless- 
ness that  was,  after  all,  paramount  in  Marianna, 
sent  her  back  to  her  life  without  obligations.  The 
incidental  comedy  was  deliciously  human,  and  the 
philosophy,  trite  as  it  was,  was  wTorked  out  with 

145 


Felicity 

great  charm.  Felicity,  alternating  the  roles,  was 
lovely — and  behind  all  the  efforts  of  queen  and 
gypsy  to  be  other  than  they  really  were,  one 
glimpsed,  always,  that  entrancing  double  conscious- 
ness of  Felicity's  wherewith  she  seemed  ever  to  see 
herself  as  two  persons,  the  two  persons  that  are  in 
all  of  us :  the  person  we  are  and  the  person  we 
would  like  to  think  ourselves.  "  One  of  me," 
Felicity  was  wont  to  say  of  herself,  "  is  always 
watching  '  the  other  of  me  '  with  a  tender,  smiling 
incredulity."  Even  so,  as  her  Marie  played  at 
being  Marianna,  one  felt  the  failure  of  the  young 
queen's  efforts  to  make  her  queenly  self  take  seri- 
ous account  of  her  gypsyish  efforts;  and  as  her 
Marianna  played  at  being  Marie,  one  felt  under 
the  brave  pretence  the  free  girl's  startled  awe  of 
queenly  obligations.  Altogether,  it  was  the  kind 
of  pretty  play  into  which  one  might  read  as 
deeply  as  his  philosophy  of  life  made  possible, 
and  which  sent  every  auditor  away  with  a  sense 
of  better  satisfaction  in  the  life  he  was  living, 
whatever  it  might  be,  and  yet  kept  sweet  for 
him,  in  a  sort  of  separate  consciousness,  those 
dreams  he  liked  to  cherish  of  a  self  he  could 
never  be. 

'  There's  something  uncommonly  wistful,  ap- 
pealing, about  her  comedy  to-night;  don't  you 
feel  it?" 

It  was  a  minute,  at  least,  after  the  curtain  had 

146 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

gone  down  on  the  first  act  that  Morton  Allston 
shook  himself  out  of  his  revery  sufficiently  to 
address  this  remark  to  his  wife. 

"  I  didn't  notice  anything  unusual,"  said  Sadie 
Allston,  a  little  crisply.  It  would  not  have  been 
in  human  nature  for  her  to  be  other  than  jealous 
of  her  husband's  enthusiasm  in  the  triumphs  of  his 
one-time  playmate. 

"  I  wish  The  Old  Man  could  see  her  to-night," 
he  murmured,  more  to  himself  than  to  Sadie.  But 
Sadie,  absorbed  in  conversation  with  one  of  her 
guests,  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

Morton  was  glad  he  sat  far  back  in  the  box 
where  the  shadows  hid  the  tears  in  his  eyes  at  the 
close  of  the  last  act.  The  others  who  watched 
Felicity  had  laughed  with  her  and  cried  and 
laughed  again,  and  as  the  final  curtain  dropped 
they  were  all  smiling  happily  through  their  tears 
and  breathing  little,  ecstatic  sighs  of  wonder  at 
the  sweetness  of  her  art  and  the  completeness  of 
her  triumph.  But  somehow,  the  impression  that 
stayed  with  Morton  was  one  of  pathos,  deep  pathos 
— not  the  pathos  of  the  play,  but  the  pathos  of  the 
player. 

'  There's  something  about  her  voice,  her  smile, 
the  very  way  she  uses  her  wonderful  hands,  that 
wrings  my  heart  to-night,"  he  mused.  "  I  wish 
I  knew  if  she  were  in  any  trouble." 

"  Isn't  she  exquisite !  "  cried  one  of  his  guests, 

147 


Felicity 


as  he  helped  her  with  her  cloak.  "  How  proud 
you  must  be  of  her." 

"  I  am,"  he  said,  simply. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  take  us  back,  Mor- 
ton? "  Sadie  asked.  "  The  girls  are  crazy  to  meet 
her." 

"  And  the  men,"  supplemented  a  masculine 
guest. 

So  they  went  back,  and  exchanged  a  few  words 
with  Felicity,  who  welcomed  them  with  that  shy- 
ness which  all  her  rough  schooling  and  all  her 
brilliant  success  alike  had  failed  to  alter,  and  which 
was  her  chief  charm  to  those  who  could  appreci- 
ate it. 

An  effusive  or  evidently  easy  Felicity  would  have 
seemed  a  strange  anomaly  to  her  friends.  Some 
called  her  little  effect  of  diffidence,  of  withdrawal, 
the  supremacy  of  art — the  art  of  coquetry — and 
no  one  could  deny  that  she  was  too  perfect  an 
artist  in  feeling  to  be  unaware  that  it  was  the  man- 
ner most  pre-eminently  fitting  her  personality.  But 
also  she  was  too  perfect  an  artist  in  expression  to 
seem  conscious  of  her  art,  and  whether  she  was  shy 
by  necessity  or  by  selection,  few  ever  came  away 
from  meeting  her  without  saying: 

"  Wonderful !  that  shy,  sweet  manner  in  a 
woman  of  her  triumphs." 

Felicity  knew  they  said  it,  and  it  pleased  her. 
But  she  could  not  have  been  otherwise,  in  any 

148 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

event,  for  like  many  another  celebrity  who  com- 
pels admiration  from  a  distance,  she  was  uncon- 
querably timid  with  most  people  at  close  range. 

"  We'd  love  to  have  you  take  supper  with  us 
if  you  can,  Miss  Fergus,"  said  Sadie,  whose  heart- 
was  set  on  giving  her  four  guests  the  kind  of  time 
no  one  else  in  their  acquaintance  could  give  them — 
the  kind  of  time  they  would  talk  about  for  many  a 
day  while  they  told  their  friends  anecdotes  of 
"  when  I  had  supper  with  Miss  Fergus." 

But  Felicity  shook  her  head,  smiling.  "  I  don't 
eat  supper,"  she  said;  "only  a  glass  of  hot  milk 
and  a  cracker,  or  something  like  that.  Mrs.  All- 
ston  never  knew  Aunt  Elie,  did  she?  "  turning  to 
Morton,  "  or  she'd  know  I  never  learned  to  eat 
late  suppers.  I  often  wish  I  had  learned;  it  looks 
so  jolly,"  she  went  on,  apologetically,  "  but  I'm 
afraid  I  couldn't  begin  now  without  having  to 
pay  the  piper  exorbitantly  the  next  day.  And 
that's  what  we  can't  afford  to  do,  you  know.  I've 
heard  of  comedians  whose  comedy  was  dyspepsia- 
proof — and  comedians  incline  to  dyspepsia,  as 
the  sparks  fly  upward — but  I'm  afraid  mine 
wouldn't  be." 

At  the  supper-table  in  a  gay  cafe  Morton  told 
his  guests  about  the  performance  of  Mary  Stuart 
that  had  inaugurated  so  much  in  Felicity's  life,  and 
about  his  first  sight  of  her  across  the  footlights, 
and  the  night  in  his  college  career  when  the  six 

149 


Felicity 


fellows  had  gone  daft  about  her  smile  and  she  had 
worn  in  her  hair  the  pink  rose  he  sent  her. 

"  And  now,  for  old  times'  sake,  whenever  she 
is  playing  in  a  town  where  I  am,  I  send  her  a 
few  pink  roses  '  with  the  compliments  of  the 
killer,'  "  he  said,  "  and  always,  if  the  part  allows, 
she  wears  one  in  her  hair." 

Meanwhile,  in  her  room  at  the  hotel,  Felicity 
sat  in  the  dark,  by  the  embers  of  her  wood  fire, 
alone.  She  had  dismissed  Celeste  as  soon  as  she 
could,  saying  she  would  go  to  bed  presently,  when 
she  felt  like  it.  And  then,  in  her  white  night- 
dress and  down-wadded  Japanese  lounging-robe, 
her  long  braids  of  silken-fine  hair  hanging  Mar- 
guerite-wise over  her  shoulders,  she  slipped  from 
her  chair  to  the  warm  hearthrug  and  sat  there  in 
a  little,  huddled  heap,  hugging  her  updrawn 
knees. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  Allston  supper  party — 
wondering  if  she  would  have  had  a  good  time  if 
she  had  gone  with  them.  But  no!  she  doubted 
whether  she  could  have  enjoyed  it.  That  was  not 
what  she  yearned  for,  in  these  hours  when — tense, 
still,  with  the  effort  of  the  evening,  and  wrought  to 
her  highest  pitch — she  returned  to  her  rooms  in 
need  of  a  rest  that  was  not  there. 

The  room  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  flow- 
ers. The  thunders  of  applause  that  had  greeted 

150 


All  that  Glitters  Is  Not  Happiness 

her  might  have  echoed  in  her  ears,  had  she  but  list- 
ened. But  she  was  not  remembering  her  triumphs. 
She  was  remembering  Adelaide  Walters  upstairs 
on  her  sick-bed;  remembering  the  brown,  stringy 
arms  that  had  once  been  likened  to  the  lost  arms 
of  the  Venus  of  Milo;  remembering  the  gray  little 
room  and  the  desolate  huddle  of  clothing  on  the 
chair.  There  came  back  to  her  what  Aunt  Elie 
had  often  told  her  about  the  days  when  Cecile  Fer- 
gus lay  hovering  on  the  borderland  between  two 
worlds,  and  a  little,  crimson  circular  she  had  worn 
hung  on  the  hall-rack  in  the  grim  old  house.  Every 
time  one  of  the  three  Ferguses  passed  the  hall- 
rack  the  little  circular  brought  a  flood  of  feeling 
almost  too  piteous  to  be  borne.  But  no  one  would 
imply  the  failure  of  hope  by  taking  the  crimson 
cloak  down,  and  so  it  hung,  agonizing  them  all, 
till  Robert  was  gone,  with  his  precious  burden,  to 
the  Southland.  Then,  when  the  morning  after 
the  funeral  came,  and  Amelia  and  her  mother  were 
face  to  face  with  the  unutterably  heart-breaking 
task  of  putting  little  Cecile's  abandoned  things 
tenderly  away,  Amelia  had  gone  into  the  hall  and 
found  her  mother  standing  by  the  hall-rack,  her 
head  buried  in  the  folds  of  that  gay  little  circular, 
her  large  form  shaken  with  sobs. 

That  was  sad,  Felicity  reflected,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing in  the  firelight,  but  that  hastily  discarded  cloth- 
ing on  the  chair  upstairs  was  sadder,  far  sadder, 


Felicity 


because  there  was  no  one  but  herself,  almost  a 
stranger,  whose  heart  ached  at  its  piteousness. 

Then  she  recalled,  with  what  she  would  have 
said  was  a  strange  inconsequence,  had  she  thought 
of  it  at  all,  how  tenderly  Morton  had  laid  Sadie's 
cloak  about  her  shoulders  on  the  draughty  stage, 
fastening  it  under  her  chin  with  no  fumbling  fin- 
gers, but  the  deftness  of  one  used  to  such  service. 

And  again  she  looked  down  at  her  satiny  white 
arms  encircling  her  knees,  and  tried  to  see  them 
brown  and  stringy  with  age,  like  Adelaide  Wal- 
ters's.  Strange  !  she  had  not  thought  of  this  before 
— had  been  too  absorbed  with  her  breathless  climb- 
ing to  think  of  what  lay  beyond  the  summit,  far 
down  on  the  other  slope.  One  never  thought  of 
anything  but  the  top  until  it  was  reached;  then, 
immediately,  before  one  had  enjoyed  it,  one  must 
think  of  the  descent.  Why,  oh  why,  had  she  come 
this  uncompanioned  way? 

And,  sobbing  with  the  keenest  sense  she  had  yet 
known  of  the  insufficiency  of  her  triumphs  to  sat- 
isfy, she  crept  to  bed. 


152 


CHAPTER    XI 

A  MUMMER'S  END 

ADELAIDE  WALTERS  died  on  Friday,  and 
Sunday  they  buried  her  in  Graceland, 
where  she  had  said  she  would  as  lief  lie  as  any- 
where. Her  parents  and  kinsfolk  lay  far  overseas 
in  Germany,  whence  she  had  come  in  her  young 
girlhood,  and  there  was  no  burial  spot  in  America 
that  was  sacred  to  her. 

Felicity,  who  had  watched  with  her  to  the  end, 
holding  her  hand,  followed  her  to  the  grave. 

Saturday  there  was  brought  to  her  in  her  dress- 
ing-room at  the  theatre  during  the  matinee  a  pen- 
cilled note: 

"Awfully  sorry  to  hear  about  Aunt  Adelaide's  death.  Can 
I  be  of  any  service?  I  am  playing  at  McVicker's. 

«  "VINCENT  DELANO." 

She  remembered,  now,  that  Delano  had  for  sev- 
eral seasons  lately  played  in  an  important  star  com- 
pany with  Miss  Walters,  and  like  many  of  the 
younger  men  who  played  with  her  and  benefited 
by  her  quiet  little  friendlinesses,  had  taken  to  call- 

153 


Felicity 


ing  her  "  Aunt  Adelaide."    So  she  scribbled  him  a 
return  note: 

*'  So  glad  to  know  you  are  in  town.      Yes,  come  to-morrow 

and  help  with  the  last  tribute.     Be  at 's  undertaking 

rooms  at  two  o'clock.  "F.F." 

The  next  day,  in  the  chapel  of  the  undertaker, 
beside  the  casket  of  their  fellow-player,  she  met 
Vincent  Delano  for  the  first  time  in  several  years. 
They  had  not  played  in  the  same  company  since 
that  long,  long  ago  time,  a  dozen  years  in  fact, 
but  an  eternity  in  seeming,  when  she  had  left 
Morton's  company  at  the  close  of  the  spring  run 
in  New  York  and  Vincent  had  buoyed  up  her 
heavy  heart  with  the  promise  of  a  weekly  letter. 
For  a  fortnight  before  they  parted  she  had  made 
and  re-made  in  her  mind  a  question  that  should 
appear  casual  and  not  betray  the  terrible  moment- 
ousness  to  her  whether  his  letters  were  to  begin 
at  once  or  not  until  the  long  tour  of  exile  began. 
But  she  had  never  mustered  courage  to  ask.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  letters  began  immediately, 
grew  more  and  more  intermittent  through  £he  short 
summer  vacation,  and  lapsed  entirely  before  the 
tour  of  exile  was  more  than  well  under  way.  Vin- 
ce'nt  had  meant  to  be  faithful,  when  he  made  the 
promise;  Vincent  always  meant  to  be  faithful — at 
the  moment  of  promising.  But  events  conspired 
against  him — there  could  be  no  other  way  of 

154 


explaining  it,  they  really  did !  He  told  Felicity  so, 
next  time  he  saw  her,  which  was  not  for  a  couple 
of  years.  And  he  told  it  with  such  charming  con- 
trition— very  real,  too,  at  the  moment — that  she 
forgave  him  heartily,  though  she  had  never,  to 
tell  the  truth,  blamed  him  as  she  should,  nor  ever 
taken  him  down  for  one  rebellious  instant  from 
his  pedestal. 

Their  ways  had  not  crossed  much  in  the  years 
that  had  made  her  unrivalled  in  her  art  and  that 
were  now  threatening  Vincent's  supremacy  as  a 
matinee  idol.  But  if  younger  men  inclined  to 
replace  Vincent  with  the  sweet  sixteen  of  the 
day,  no  one  had  ever  replaced  him  with  Felicity. 
She  no  longer  thought  much  about  him,  except  at 
semi-occasional  times  when  he  recurred  to  her  in 
some  moment  of  sentimental  need.  But  for  the 
most  part,  her  energy  was  absorbed  by  her  art  and 
she  had  almost  forgotten  the  need  of  any  other 
idol — forgotten  what  The  Old  Man  had  so  often 
said  to  her  about  an  artist  being  always  a  wor- 
shipper. 

There  was,  therefore,  little  more  consciousness 
in  her  manner  when  she  greeted  Vincent  than  any 
woman  of  eight-and-twenty  is  likely  to  feel  in 
greeting  the  man  she  worshipped  at  sixteen.  Fe- 
licity's sensibilities  were  too  delicate  for  her  to  miss 
the  tenderness  of  the  reminiscence  Vincent  inspired 
— the  tenderness  of  maturity  for  the  momentous 

155 


Felicity 


things  of  youth.  She  could  never  have  been  the 
artist  she  was  if  the  sight  of  Vincent,  or  the  thought 
of  him,  had  given  her  only  amusement,  unmixed 
with  wistfulness  for  the  little  girl  who  had  been. 
And  today  she  was  doubly  glad  to  see  him,  for  she 
was  feeling  lonely,  very  lonely,  and  he  was  part 
of  a  yesterday  that  she  loved  and  longed  for;  one 
of  the  few  living  links  of  her  present  with  that 
vivid  past  dominated  by  The  Old  Man. 

She  asked  Vincent  to  ride  in  her  carriage  to 
the  cemetery,  and  in  the  long  drive  on  the  bleak, 
wintry  day,  they  had  opportunity  for  much  talk 
with  which  they  tried  to  bridge  the  gaps  in  their 
association. 

Vincent  was  inclining  to  some  girth  at  eight- 
and-thirty,  and  his  hair  was  thinning.  The  thin 
hair  was  easily  concealable,  but  not  so  the  girth; 
if  that  got  greater  he  would  be  in  a  bad  way.  But 
what  was  a  man  to  do,  when  he  had  spent  nearly 
forty  years  in  eating  what  pleased  him  and  drink- 
ing what  was  procurable  and  exercising  when  he 
could  not  help  it,  and  sleeping  when  there  was 
nothing  better  to  do?  A  fellow  could  not  begin 
asceticism  at  forty.  Ah,  yes !  some  had  done  it, 
but  he  was  not  their  sort.  "  When  I'm  too  fat 
to  play  Romeo,  I'll  be  just  right  to  play  Falstaff — 
without  padding,  like  Lemon  and  Hackett,"  said 
Vincent,  comfortably. 

But  the  threatening  girth  did  not  diminish  his 
156 


A  Mummer's  End 

charm.  If  he  had  been  as  fat  as  that  obesest  of 
swashbucklers,  Vincent  would  still  have  been 
charming.  Felicity  felt  the  pleasureableness  of 
that  charm  as  he  talked,  as  he  readjusted  the  car- 
riage rug  about  her  when  it  had  slid  off,  and  even 
as  he  picked  the  dryest  place  for  her  to  stand  when 
they  got  out. 

The  earth  lay  ankle-deep  in  slush  which  would 
soon  freeze  solid  in  the  icy  wind  sweeping  bleakly 
in  from  the  lake  and  whipping  the  garments  of  the 
little  group  about  them  as  they  stood  reverently 
by  poor  Adelaide  Walters's  grave.  Felicity  was 
crying  when  she  re-entered  her  carriage  and  was 
driven  away  into  the  chill  grayness,  and  when 
she  looked  up  at  Vincent,  who  had  not  broken 
the  silence,  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"  I'm  all  stove  in,"  he  said  frankly,  unashamed 
of  his  emotion,  as  he  wiped  away  the  tears. 

"  I  suppose  that's  a  typical  mummer's  end," 
said  Felicity,  bitterly. 

Vincent  looked  startled;  he  had  not  thought  of 
that — did  not  want  to  think  of  it. 

u  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "  any- 
way, let's  hope  not.  Now,  see  here,  little  girl, 
you've  cried  enough  this  week,  I'll  bet.  You  can't 
help  that  poor  soul  any  more,  so  what's  the  use 
of  stewing  yourself  sick  over  her  lonely  death? 
Dry  your  eyes  and  come  to  dinner  with  your 

157 


Felicity 


uncle,  here,  and  see  if  I  can't  do  something  to 
draw  out  one  of  your  '  justly  celebrated  smiles.'  ' 

It  was  hard  to  realize  how  much  of  a  stranger 
Vincent  really  was,  the  easy  friendliness  of  his 
manner  was  as  perfect  as  if  he  had  been  seeing  her 
daily,  all  their  lives;  it  lacked  the  least  tinge  of 
familiarity,  but  it  had  all  the  apparent  forgetful- 
ness  of  her  fame  for  which  her  heart  hungered 
then. 

"  He  treats  me  like  a  human  being,"  she 
thought,  gratefully,  "  and  not  like  a  '  star.'  He 
treats  me  just  as  if  I  were  still  little  Felicity  Fer- 
gus, the  ingenue  of  The  Old  Man's  Company." 
And  her  heart  warmed  to  him. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  they  got  back  down- 
town, and  they  drove  at  once  to  Kinsley's,  where 
Vincent  picked  a  quietly-located  table  and  got  Fe- 
licity a  glass  of  sherry  to  drive  her  nervous  chill 
away,  and  with  the  least  imaginable  ado  ordered 
a  beautiful  little  dinner — an  accomplishment  in 
which  his  artistry  was  never  disputed. 

Felicity,  who  was  never  gorgeous,  but  who  loved 
exquisite  color  and  texture  for  stage  and  house 
wear,  maintained  a  simplicity  of  attire  for  the 
street  that  seldom  failed  to  cause  comment;  like  her 
manner,  it  was  "  so  unactressy."  To-night  she 
wore  a  close-fitting  black  gown,  with  the  slightest 
tournure  possible  short  of  conspicuousness  in  a  day 
when  every  woman's  effort  seemed  to  be  to  look 

158 


A  Mummer's  End 

more  monstrous  than  her  neighbors.  Where  the 
dead  black  met  her  creamy  skin  at  throat  and 
wrists  there  was  a  slender  line  of  white  lisse  ruch- 
ing.  She  had  not  a  jewel  about  her,  nor  a  trace  of 
color,  but  Vincent,  who  was  naturally  rather  splen- 
did in  his  tastes,  could  not  help  chuckling  delight- 
edly to  himself  as  he  watched  woman  after  woman 
sweep  in,  dressed,  as  he  put  it,  "  in  all  the  finery  the 
law  allows,"  and  noted  how  tawdry  they  looked 
beside  the  woman  opposite  him,  with  her  masses 
of  shining,  braided  hair,  and  sweetly  serious  face, 
where  the  famous  smile  played  only  so  occasionally 
as  to  keep  one  watching  for  it  fascinatedly,  fearful 
lest  a  smile  be  lost. 

"  Got  'em  all  beat  in  a  walk — she  has !  "  he  told 
himself,  and  grew  quite  absorbed — for  Vincent — 
in  wondering  if  she  affected  this  simplicity  with  a 
fine  art  that  conceals  art,  or  if  it  was  the  inevitable 
outcropping  of  her  Puritan  blood — that  Puritan 
blood  which  had  always  made  her  seem  to  Vincent 
so  distinctly  not  his  kind.  As  for  Felicity,  she  her- 
self was  not  sure  whether  her  sombre  attire  in 
public  was  affected  or  not — and  she  enjoyed  her 
own  uncertainty.  For  she  piqued  her  own  inter- 
est, even  as  she  piqued  other  people's,  and  was  as 
often  at  a  loss  to  understand  herself  as  others  were 
to  understand  her.  The  thing  that  made  her  an 
artist,  though,  was  that  she  did  not  imagine  this 
dual  feeling  peculiar  to  herself;  she  knew  it  to  be 

159 


Felicity 

a  common  human  trait,  and  this  knowledge  was  her 
power.  The  Old  Man  had  seen  to  that.  "  Tem- 
perament," he  had  been  wont  to  say,  with  his 
twinkling  smile,  "  is  human  nature — only  more 
so."  Perhaps,  Felicity  told  herself,  she  wore  those 
plain  clothes  because  she  was  really  tired  of 
gorgeousness ;  more  probably,  she  thought,  she 
wore  them  because  they  surprised  people,  and  she 
had  the  same  relish  for  doing  that  that  a  child 
has — "  only  more  so." 

They  lingered  over  their  dinner  until  nearly 
seven  o'clock,  and  then  drove  back  to  the  hotel. 
Vincent's  company  was  playing  that  night,  but 
Felicity,  though  she  had  had  to  forget,  or  to  seem 
to  forget,  all  about  the  Sabbath  in  her  'prentice 
years,  never  played  on  that  day  after  she  reached 
the  time  when  she  could  dictate  what  she  would 
and  would  not  do ;  so  her  evening  was  free. 

She  wanted  Vincent  to  get  out  of  the  cab  as  they 
passed  McVicker's,  and  let  her  go  the  few  blocks 
to  her  hotel  alone ;  but  he  would  not  hear  to  it. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  to  come  in  and  see 
the  play,"  he  suggested,  half  deprecatingly.  He 
had  said  he  did  not  think  much  of  it. 

"  No,  thank  you.  You'll  smile  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  promised  Aunt  Elie,  long  ago,  when  we  just 
had  to  break  every  Sunday  into  smithereens,  that 
when  I  got  to  where  I  could,  I'd  keep  Sunday. 
That  seemed  to  comfort  her,  a  little,  in  what  was 

1 60 


A  Mummer's  End 

really  a  very  terrible  trial  to  her,  and  I  felt  it  was 
as  little  as  I  could  do  in  return  for  all  she  sacrificed 
for  me." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Vincent,  refraining  from  com- 
ment. But  when  he  had  seen  her  safely  to  her 
hotel  and  had  paid  her  the  last  little  attention  his 
thoughtfulness  could  devise,  he  lighted  a  fresh 
cigarette  and  settled  back  in  the  cab  with  a  feeling 
of  amiable  satisfaction  that  none  of  his  forbears 
had  handed  down  any  Puritan  scruples  to  him. 

"  She's  easily  the  most  exquisite  thing  I  ever 
saw,"  he  reflected,  "  but  I'd  hate  like  the  deuce  to 
have  to  live  up  to  her." 

When  Felicity  reached  her  rooms,  she  found 
that  Morton  Allston  had  been  there,  wanting  to 
take  her  back  home  with  him  to  spend  a  quiet 
evening.  Of  other  callers  there  had  been  no  lack, 
but  she  regretted  missing  none  of  them.  It  would 
have  been  a  blessed  relief,  though,  to  sit  down  and 
talk  to  Morton  of  the  things  that  filled  her  mind. 

It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock,  and  there  was  a 
long,  long  evening  to  be  got  through,  somehow; 
she  had  no  hope  of  getting  sleepy  before  midnight. 
People  would  call — plenty  of  them — but  as  she 
ran  over  the  list  of  probabilities  she  could  not  think 
of  one  she  wanted  to  see ;  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  ordinary  "  calling  conversation "  that  night, 
with  the  memory  of  a  desolate  grave  so  heavily 
oppressing  her.  And  there  was  no  reason  to  expect 

161 


Felicity 


that  anything  diverting  and  enlivening  would  event- 
uate from  a  strange  quarter. 

She  wandered  restlessly  about  her  sitting-room 
for  a  while,  now  sitting  down  to  the  desk  to  write 
a  letter,  and  in  a  moment  pushing  it  impatiently 
away,  scarce  begun;  now  picking  up  a  magazine 
and  making  an  ineffectual  effort  to  get  interested 
in  a  story. 

The  log  fire  snapped  and  sparkled  cosily;  there 
was  the  usual  profusion  of  freshly-cut  flowers;  the 
room  invited  one  to  comfort,  but  Felicity  only 
fretted  the  more  that  there  was  no  one  there  to 
make  comfort  for  her  by  enjoying  it  with  her.  If 
only  she  could  have  drawn  up  two  big  chairs  before 
that  fire,  and  turned  the  lights  low,  and  sat  there, 
four-feet-on-a-fender  fashion  with  somebody  who 
had  recollections  common  with  hers,  who  dreamed 
her  dreams !  With  The  Old  Man,  first  choice  of 
all,  though  he  was  no  "  blood  kin  "  of  hers.  But 
The  Old  Man  was  sleeping  in  Mt.  Auburn,  these 
six  years,  and  had  never  seen  her  triumphs.  With 
Aunt  Elie,  for  second  choice — or,  no !  not  for  sec- 
ond ;  that  was  wrong.  Aunt  Elie  should  always  be 
first.  The  Old  Man  was  the  most  charming  human 
being  she  had  ever  known,  the  most  adorable,  but 
he  had  never  sacrificed  anything  for  her,  and  Aunt 
Elie  had  sacrificed  everything.  Sacrifice  was  not 
much  the  way  of  The  Old  Man,  and  it  was  not 
right  to  want  him  first  because  he  was  so  infinitely 

162 


A  Mummer's  End 

delightful.  No,  no!  Aunt  Elie  was  first  choice 
for  that  vacant  chair,  but  Aunt  Elie  was  eight 
hundred  miles  away,  where  the  peach  trees  were 
blooming.  She  was  lonesome,  too,  as  Felicity  was, 
and  there  was  little  likelihood  that  they  could  be 
much  together  again.  Ah!  this  was  a  lonesome 
world. 

With  her  genius  for  make-believe,  Felicity  even 
drew  two  chairs  up  to  the  fire  and  turned  down  the 
lights,  trying  to  feel  the  presence  of  some  one  oppo- 
site who  loved  her  and  the  things  she  loved;  but  to 
no  avail.  She  almost  wished  she  had  gone  to  the 
theatre  with  Vincent,  even  to  see  a  very  mediocre 
play. 

Celeste  brought  another  card.  Felicity  looked 
at  it,  hesitated  a  moment,  then,  "  Say  Miss  Fergus 
has  been  to  Miss  Walters's  funeral  and  is  very 
tired,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  the  boy  to  order  a  cab 
for  me  at  once." 

"Will  madame  change  her  dress?"  asked 
Celeste,  too  perfectly  trained  to  make  comment  or 
show  surprise. 

"  No;  I'll  go  just  as  I  am.  Please  look  in  the 
address  book  on  my  desk  and  find  Mr.  Morton 
Allston's  house  number.  I'm  going  out  to  make  a 
call ;  I  may  come  right  back,  I  may  spend  the  even- 
ing. You  needn't  wait  for  me.  Do  what  you 
like,  to-night." 

"  Thank    you,    madame,"    murmured    Celeste, 

163 


Felicity- 


helping  her  into  her  little  black  jacket  and  fastening 
her  furs. 

Felicity  felt  a  distinct  sense  of  adventure  and 
laughed  at  herself  for  so  feeling. 

"  To  get  into  a  stuffy  cab,  all  '  by  lones,'  as  I 
used  to  say,  and  drive  to  the  house  of  a  quiet  young 
couple  to  make  an  ordinary,  humdrum  Sunday- 
evening  call,  seems  the  height  of  excitement  to  me. 
And  yet,  I  suppose  there's  hardly  a  woman  in  this 
town  who  doesn't  think  of  my  life  as  undoubtedly 
the  most  deliriously  exciting  one  imaginable !  " 

She  surprised  Morton  and  his  wife  in  the  full 
abandon  of  domestic  ease  on  a  wretched,  bluster- 
ing Sunday  evening,  when  the  likelihood  of  callers 
was  so  small  as  to  be  no  likelihood  at  all. 

They  had  piled  high  the  fire  in  their  cosy  sitting- 
room  and  lit  the  reading  lamp.  Morton,  in  loung- 
ing coat  and  slippers,  was  reading  aloud,  between 
puffs  at  his  pipe,  and  Sadie,  in  a  fussy,  bridey-look- 
ing  negligee,  was  curled  up  on  a  couch  with  a  light 
rug  thrown  over  her.  On  a  small  table,  pushed  out 
of  the  way,  was  a  large  tray,  bespeaking  a  little 
"  picnic  tea  "  they  had  eaten  in  here  after  getting 
it  themselves,  on  the  servant's  evening  out. 

Morton  answered  Felicity's  ring,  and  was  so 
surprised  to  see  her  he  could  scarcely  believe  his 
senses. 

"  Oh,"  she  begged,  when  Sadie  got  up  to  bestir 
herself,  asking  if  she  had  had  tea,  and  Morton  was 

164 


A  Mummer's  End 

inquiring  if  she  had  overshoes  and  ought  she  not 
to  let  him  take  them  off,  and  would  she  not  lay  off 
her  hat,  "  Oh,  please  don't  bother  about  me,  or  let 
me  break  up  your  quiet  evening!  I  was  so  lone- 
some I  couldn't  stand  it  another  minute,  and  I 
thought  maybe  if  I  came  out  here  and  found  you 
having  a  cosy,  happy  time,  you'd  let  me  slip  in  and 
share  it  without  making  any  fuss  about  me.  Some- 
body's always  making  a  fuss  about  me,"  she  fin- 
ished, with  a  weary  little  gesture,  "  and  I  get  so 
tired  of  it !  " 

No,  she  would  not  have  any  tea,  she  would  not 
have  anything.  "  If  you'll  just  let  me  sit  there," 
she  said,  indicating  a  low  chair  in  the  shadow, 
"  and  go  on  with  your  reading,  and  '  make  out  like 
I'm  folks,'  I'd  far  rather  have  it  than — than  an  em- 
pire! Yes,  for  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  take  an  empire 
for  a  gift,"  she  laughed,  "  it  would  be  such  a 
nuisance !  " 

"  I  read  in  my  paper  this  morning,"  Morton 
told  her,  "  about  Miss  Walters's  funeral,  and  I 
told  Sadie  I  knew  you'd  be  tired  and  sad,  and  I 
was  going  down  to  get  you  and  bring  you  out  to 
tea.  I  never  dreamed  of  your  going  to  Graceland 
this  awful  day;  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  'be  let.' 
So  I  went  down  about  the  time  I  thought  you'd 
be  back  from  the  service  at  the  undertaker's." 

"  Oh,  my  manager  protested,  of  course,  and 
everybody  told  me  it  was  too  much  for  me  to  under- 

165 


Felicity 

take,  and  all  that;  but  I  get  balky,  sometimes,  and 
hate  them  all  because  I  know  they're  considering 
the  box  office  only,  and  don't  care  whether  I  live 
up  to  what  seem  to  me  my  human  obligations  or 
not.  My  heart  ached  so  over  that  poor,  lonely  old 
soul  that  I  had  to  stay  with  her  as  long  as  I  could, 
even  though  I  knew  it  was  forever  past  time  for 
cheering  her.  I  want  some  one  to  stay  by  me  until 
the  inexorable  last  minute,  some  day,"  she  finished, 
with  a  quaver  in  her  voice. 

"  When  your  time  comes  it'll  be  like  The  Old 
Man's,"  assured  Morton ;  "  thousands  you  never 
saw  will  cry  to  think  your  light  and  laughter  have 
gone  out  of  the  world,  and  hundreds  who  loved 
you  personally  will  crowd  around  your  bier." 

"  Mercy !  "  cried  Sadie,  a  little  hysterically, 
"  let's  talk  of  something  more  cheerful !  I'm  blue 
enough  as  it  is." 

Felicity  thought  Morton's  face,  sharply  defined 
in  the  strong  reading  light  beside  him,  showed  a, 
faint  trace  of  irritation,  but  he  answered  gently,  as 
to  a  sick  child : 

"  All  right.  You  lie  down  again  and  I'll  start 
another  story." 

But  before  he  started  it,  he  went  over  to  her 
couch  and  shook  up  her  pillow  for  her,  and  when 
she  had  settled  herself  on  it  he  drew  the  rug  up 
over  her  and  arranged  a  chair-back  to  screen  her 
eyes  from  the  light. 

166 


A  Mummer's  End    . 

Felicity  had  never  seen  Morton  in  this  role  be- 
fore, and  the  strangeness  of  it  made  her  observe 
him  closely.  He  hovered  over  her,  too,  for  a 
moment,  to  make  sure  that  she  was  comfortable, 
before  going  back  to  his  chair  by  the  lamp,  refill- 
ing his  pipe,  and  beginning  a  bright  little  story. 

Felicity  closed  her  eyes  and  laid  her  head  back 
against  the  chair.  She  scarcely  followed  the  story 
at  all,  her  mind  was  so  busy  with  other  things,  but 
she  enjoyed  the  soothing  sound  of  Morton's  voice 
and  she  was  grateful  for  the  ban  it  put  on  conver- 
sation and  for  the  opportunity  it  gave  her  to  sit 
here,  in  this  atmosphere  of  snug  companionship, 
and  think. 

Morton  had  been  married  within  the  year.  On 
the  occasion  of  her  last  annual  engagement  in  Chi- 
cago, he  was  on  the  eve  of  marriage  and  had 
brought  Sadie  as  his  fiancee  to  see  Felicity  play. 
After  the  last  act  they  had  "  gone  back,"  as  on  the 
other  evening,  to  speak  with  her  for  a  minute,  and 
Sadie,  inconcealably  flustered  at  the  meeting,  had 
proposed  a  luncheon  for  Miss  Fergus,  which 
Felicity,  who  hated  the  functions  of  strangers,  had 
declined,  thereby  putting  Sadie  a  little  at  odds  with 
her.  Privately — though  not  too  privately — Sadie 
considered  Morton's  celebrated  friend  "  stuck-up 
and  spoiled." 

This  was  her  first  acquaintance  with  Felicity  off 
the  stage,  and  the  pale,  tired,  lonely  woman  in  the 

167 


Felicity- 


simple  black  dress  was  an  anomaly  to  Sadie,  who 
had  no  grasp  of  the  complex,  and  struggled  vainly 
to  associate  this  Felicity  with  the  comedienne  whose 
smile  was  world-famous. 

When  Felicity's  cab  came,  Morton  apologized 
for  not  going  to  the  hotel  with  her,  but  the  servant 
had  not  come  in  and  Sadie  was  afraid  to  stay  in  the 
house  alone.  He  seemed  troubled  by  the  situation, 
but  Felicity  assured  him  she  would  not  have 
allowed  him  to  go  in  any  case. 

"  Come  and  lunch  with  me  some  day,  and  let's 
talk  about  The  Old  Man,  and  the  blessed  old 
days,"  she  said.  Then,  "  Let  me  know,  some  time 
when  Mrs.  Allston  is  down  town,  and  we'll  arrange 
a  little  party." 

Morton  thanked  her,  and  said  he  would  speak  to 
Sadie  about  it — was  sure  she  would  be  delighted. 
Then  he  tucked  the  robe  warmly  about  her  knees, 
closed  the  carriage  door,  and  stood  an  instant  on 
the  horse-block,  in  the  sleety  wind,  waving  her 
good-by. 

"  Dear  old  Morton !  "  mused  Felicity,  "  it  seems 
so  good  to  be  with  him.  But  oh !  how  did  he  ever 
come  to  marry  that  little  nonentity?  And  how 
can  I  hope  ever  to  enjoy  him  in  her  depressing 
presence?  " 


168 


CHAPTER    XII 

SOME   QUESTIONS  THAT  WERE  NEVER  ANSWERED 

IN  April,  Felicity  settled  in  New  York  for  a  long 
run  that  would  last  well  on  into  the  warm 
weather ;  and  as  soon  as  she  was  comfortably  fixed, 
Aunt  Elie  came  up  from  Briarwood  to  be  with  her 
until  the  Fall.  After  the  season  closed  they  would 
go  somewhere  and  take  a  cottage  by  the  sea,  and 
play  at  keeping  house.  :'  We'll  make  toast  for  our 
own  tea,  by  the  grate-fire,  on  chill  evenings,"  Fe- 
licity said,  planning;  that  seemed  delightfully 
domestic  to  her,  and  she  looked  forward  to  it  with 
eager  pleasure.  She  was  tired  of  Europe,  she  said, 
and  would  not  have  gone  even  if  Aunt  Elie's 
strength  had  permitted. 

In  her  dressing-room  at  the  theatre,  one  evening 
late  in  April,  a  card  was  brought  her. 

"Do  you  know,"  it  said,  "that  this  is  the  first  time  I've 
ever  seen  you  act?  May  I  go  back  and  tell  you  how  perfectly- 
bully  you  are?  "  V.  D." 

She  sent  word  to  him  to  come  after  the  next  act, 
when  she  had  no  change  of  costume  to  make  and 
was  not  required  on  the  stage  until  the  third  act 
was  well  under  way. 

169 


Felicity 


Vincent  was  looking  wonderfully  handsome,  in 
his  immaculate  evening  dress — not  showing  any- 
thing of  the  commonplaceness  of  hastened  middle- 
age  which  already  he  had  begun  to  show,  at  times, 
in  his  street  clothes  and  under  garish  daylight.  And 
he  was  frankly  enthusiastic  about  Felicity's  acting, 
though  he  had  not  yet  watched  her  strong  scene 
in  the  third  act,  which  the  critics  called  the  most 
charming  bit  of  comedy  the  present  generation  had 
ever  witnessed. 

"  Our  show  went  broke  in  Des  Moines,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  about  a  month  after  I  saw  you  in  Chi- 
cago. Business  kept  getting  thinner  and  thinner 
and  finally  it  was  decided  to  '  withdraw  '  the  play 
and  cancel  engagements.  I  stopped  in  Chicago  on 
my  way  east,  because  I'd  heard  of  a  piece  that  was 
to  be  put  on  there  for  a  summer  run,  in  which  I 
might  get  something.  But  there  was  nothing  doing 
for  me,  and  I  knew  pretty  blessedly  well  there 
wouldn't  be  anything  in  New  York  at  this  time  o' 
year,  so  I  just  loafed  around  in  Chicago — got  a  lot 
of  awfully  jolly  friends  there — and  had  a  ripping 
time.  I  hit  little  old  New  York  Sunday,  and  the 
first  chance  I  got  I  posted  over  here  to  see  you. 
Haven't  ever  seen  you  before,  you  know.  This  is 
the  first  time  I've  been  out  of  an  engagement  since 
— well,  since  I  went  into  The  Old  Man's  company 
in  the  fall  of  '75,  nearly  fourteen  years  ago." 

Felicity  wondered  if  he  minded  this  first  break 
170 


Questions  Never  Answered 

in  his  continued  success  as  a  matinee  idol;  won- 
dered if  he  dreaded  the  encroachment  of  age  that 
promised  little  enough  for  a  man  who  had  never 
been  more  than  an  acceptable  support,  save  for  the 
ability  of  his  debonair  personality  to  draw  large 
houses  of  worshipping  women  and  girls. 

But  Vincent,  though  Felicity  wondered  in  vain 
about  him,  did  not  mind;  he  was  not  of  the  kind 
that  gives  much  thought  to  the  morrow,  nor  yet 
of  the  kind  that  inquires  too  closely  into  the  causes 
of  success  and  separates  the  success  of  youth  and 
beauty  from  the  success  of  art.  Other  men  in  his 
profession  were  no  more  than  launched  upon  their 
careers  at  forty,  and  Vincent  never  doubted  that 
the  future  would  always  hold  a  "  part  "  for  him 
and  that  the  world  would  always  treat  him  well. 
Felicity,  who  paid  the  inevitable  price  an  artist  pays 
and  was  never  able  to  satisfy  herself,  never  so 
lauded  as  to  have  her  foreboding  silenced,  never 
so  triumphant  as  to  lose  the  chill  apprehension  of 
a  day  when  triumphs  would  cease  to  be,  need  not 
have  worried  about  Vincent,  who  never  worried 
about  anything. 

'  When  may  I  come  and  see  you  and  have  a  real 
talk?  "  he  asked  her,  as  her  call  came  and  he  rose 
to  go  back  to  his  seat. 

"  Come  to  luncheon  at  one  on — let  me  see — 
Friday?  That'll  be  delightful.  Aunt  Elie'll  be 
so  glad  to  see  you." 

171 


Felicity 


"And  you?" 

"  I  thought  that  went  without  saying,"  she  said, 
smiling,  as  she  held  out  her  hand.  "  We're  at  the 
Sandringham.  Good-night;  it  was  so  good  of  you 
to  come  and  see  me."  And  she  hurried  away. 

Watching  her  in  her  great  scene  in  the  third  act 
of  'Tolnette  La  Fontaine,  Vincent  could  hardly 
believe  it  was  the  woman  he  knew — the  quiet,  shy 
woman  he  had  always  thought  was  Felicity  Fer- 
gus— who  rose  to  those  heights  of  teasing,  bewitch- 
ing comedy,  more  delicious  comedy  than  he  had 
ever  dreamed  could  be  acted  on  a  stage.  No 
wonder  the  world  went  mad  about  her,  he  mused. 
And  when  he  went  out  into  Broadway,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  the  spell  of  what  he  had  left  behind 
went  with  him,  and  the  glare  and  gayety  he  loved 
so  well  had  no  power  to  eradicate  that  strange,  new 
fascination. 

That  night  he  dreamed  of  Felicity,  dreamed  that 
she  was  beckoning  him  with  her  wonderful  smile, 
but  that  he  could  not  seem  to  follow  her  and  she 
faded  away  into  the  unreachable  distance  and  left 
him  alone.  It  was  a  curious  dream  for  Vincent, 
who  was  not  very  imaginative. 

On  Friday,  at  luncheon,  he  found  himself  ab- 
sorbed in  the  effort  to  arouse  in  Felicity  a  replica 
of  that  comedy  which  had  so  charmed  him  across 
the  footlights.  He  told  story  after  story  of  his 
mirthful  experiences,  which  Felicity  matched  with 

172 


Questions  Never  Answered 

like  tales  of  her  own,  until  they  were  all  three  in  a 
gale  of  merriment.  It  was  like  old  times,  Felicity 
said,  wiping  her  eyes  and  breathing  exhaustedly. 
Once  in  a  while — when  he  found  himself  with 
people  of  the  right  sort,  people  who  knew  this 
mood  was  occasional  instead  of  imagining  it  was 
chronic — The  Old  Man  had  given  himself  up 
whole-heartedly  to  hilarity  and  made  every  one 
around  laugh  until  he  could  laugh  no  more.  Had 
Vincent  ever  heard  him  so?  Yes — two  or  three 
times.  And  wasn't  it  something  to  remember? 
Yes,  indeed  it  was.  It  was  good  to  laugh  so,  once 
in  a  while.  But  on  the  whole,  Felicity  thought  she 
preferred  The  Old  Man's  chuckling  moods  to  any 
except  his  very  serious  moods,  which  were  the  most 
wonderful  of  all.  Vincent  had  never  known  him  in 
the  latter?  Ah,  that  was  too  bad!  But  he  re- 
vealed himself  so  only  to  a  very  few. 

"  But  you  knew  him  well  in  his  waggish 
moods  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  should  say  I  did!" 

And  there  followed  tale  on  tale  of  Phineas,  who, 
in  travelling,  had  delighted  in  giving  harrowing 
accounts  of  this  and  that  member  of  his  company 
to  credulous  and  interested  strangers.  Once,  on  a 
long,  tiresome  journey,  he  had  immensely  enter- 
tained himself  by  telling  a  good  soul  with  whom 
he  got  into  conversation,  and  who  looked  as  if  she 
might  be  the  president  of  a  foreign  missionary 


m 

Felicity- 
society  going  to  visit  a  married  daughter,  that 
Miss  Fessenden  was  "an  escaped  nun";  encour- 
aged by  the  good  soul's  gaping  interest,  he  ampli- 
fied the  story,  dwelt  on  details,  suggested  that  Miss 
Fessenden,  properly  approached,  liked  to  talk  of 
her  horrible  experiences  and  could  tell  hair-raising 
stories.  He  hardly  dared  to  hope  the  good  soul 
would  approach  Miss  Fessenden;  he  would  have 
been  sufficiently  rewarded  in  the  enjoyment  he  had 
in  his  own  fictional  powers,  and  in  the  play  of  emo- 
tions on  the  good  soul's  countenance,  testifying  to 
his  powers  as  a  story-teller;  but  she  did  venture  to 
get  first-hand  information,  with  results  that  gave 
Phineas  much  joy.  Incidentally,  he  had  remarked 
that  Miss  Fessenden  knew  the  Catholics  were  pre- 
paring another  massacre  like  St.  Bartholomew, 
and  the  good  soul,  who  had  said  she  was  a  Metho- 
dist, asked  Miss  Fessenden  if  this  were  true.  Vin- 
cent could  never  forget  Miss  Fessenden's  fury;  he 
laughed  till  he  cried,  every  time  he  thought  of  it. 

"  It  was  a  great  hobby  of  his,  to  what  lengths 
bigotry  would  lead  people  even  in  these  days," 
Felicity  observed;  "he  was  always  trying  such 
things  in  jest  and  thinking  them  over  in  earnest. 

"  I  remember  one  day  when  I  was  with  him  in 
Boston,"  she  went  on,  "  and  we  stopped  in  front 
of  one  of  the  newspaper  offices  on  Washington 
Street,  to  watch  a  young  man  write  bulletins  of  the 
latest  news,  on  a  big  blackboard  on  the  front  of  the 


Questions  Never  Answered 

building.  '  Cholera,'  wrote  the  young  man,  stand- 
ing on  a  step-ladder  to  reach,  '  is  raging  in  Vienna.' 
With  an  intent  interest  The  Old  Man  observed 
to  me,  in  a  quite-audible  undertone,  '  He  spells 
"  raging  "  with  one  g.'  The  young  man  turned 
around,  annoyed;  there  was  a  little  group  of  by- 
standers, all  of  whom  looked  puzzled.  '  One  g's 
right,'  said  the  young  man,  belligerently.  The  Old 
Man's  face  was  a  study  in  inscrutability.  '  I  didn't 
say  it  wasn't,'  he  remarked;  '  I  simply  told  my  little 
girl,  here,  that  you  did  it  with  one  g.'  Somebody 
in  the  little  crowd  tittered.  '  Oh,  well !  '  snarled 
the  young  man,  impatiently,  and  rubbed  it  out  and 
rewrote  it  with  two  g's.  Then  The  Old  Man  and 
I  solemnly  and  silently  stole  away  and  looked  for 
a  place  to  laugh.  But  he  often  recurred  to  that 
episode  as  an  illustration  of  how  easily  people  are 
discouraged,  and,  more  particularly,  of  how  little 
positiveness  most  of  us  have  about  our  knowl- 
edge." 

Felicity's  story-telling  was  exquisite ;  its  mimicry 
perfect,  its  understanding  of  human  nature  both 
keen  and  kind.  With  her  training,  added  to  her 
natural  bent,  everything  in  life  was  a  story  to  her, 
every  day's  experience  was  an  unwritten  book  of 
the  Comedie  Humaine.  Vincent  was  entranced. 
He  had  never  known  Felicity  like  this  before,  and 
he  was  quite  excited  over  his  discovery.  Her  old 
charm  was  new  to  Vincent,  for  all  the  years  he  had 

175 


Felicity 


known  her,  and  though  he  did  not  analyze  it  to  find 
its  essence,  he  felt  the  full  flavor  of  its  unexpected- 
ness. 

That  night  he  was  at  the  theatre  to  see  her  again, 
feeling  rather  foolish  about  it,  but  unable  to  keep 
away.  And  at  the  close  of  the  third  act  he  sent 
back  a  box  of  white  hyacinths  and  violets,  with  a 
card: 

"Just  had  to  see  it  all  over  again;  find  it  more  wonderful  than 
before.  "V." 

Felicity,  as  she  buried  her  face  in  the  cool,  sweet 
flowers,  seemed  to  see  the  little  girl  of  long  ago;  to 
feel  the  thrill  that  little  girl  felt  when  a  tall  hero 
told  her  to  "  brace  up  "  and  he'd  help  her  all  he 
could;  to  tremble  again  with  the  wonderful  feeling 
of  her  arms  about  that  hero's  neck.  And  when  she 
lifted  her  face  from  the  flowers  it  was  flushed  with 
the  memory  of  a  sweet  consciousness  that  had  gone 
out  of  her  life  in  the  struggle,  long  ago,  and  had 
never  been  replaced — no,  not  in  all  her  triumphs — 
by  anything  half  so  delicious. 

That  night,  when  she  returned  to  her  rooms  at 
the  hotel,  Aunt  Elie  was  asleep,  as  usual,  and  every- 
thing was  very  quiet.  After  Celeste  had  brushed 
Felicity's  hair  and  put  away  her  clothes  and  done 
the  other  little  services  of  the  bedtime  hour,  Felicity 
dismissed  her  and,  wrapping  a  dressing-gown 
around  her,  sat  down  again,  as  on  that  night  in 

176 


Questions  Never  Answered 

Chicago,  before  the  log  fire  which  the  chill  spring 
night  required  for  comfort. 

There  she  sat,  a  long  time,  on  the  warm  hearth- 
rug, pondering.  She  wished  Aunt  Elie  were 
awake ;  she  wanted  to  ask  her  some  questions.  But 
Aunt  Elie  was  poorly,  very  poorly,  and  it  would  be 
sheer  cruelty  to  wake  her.  No !  the  morning  would 
not  do  as  well — not  nearly.  There  are  some  things 
one  asks  and  tells  over  the  midnight  embers  that 
one  would  never,  never  mention  over  the  breakfast 
table. 

Felicity's  days  were  very  full;  not  ideally  so,  by 
any  means,  but  even  the  frets  and  the  onerous  obli- 
gations were  of  a  kind  she  could  fight  through  by 
herself  pretty  well.  It  was  the  quiet  times — the 
nights,  after  the  lights  were  out  and  the  plaudits  of 
the  theatre  were  gone  from  her  ears ;  the  Sundays ; 
the  hours  when  she  ceased,  as  it  were,  to  be  a  busy 
actress,  and  was  only  a  woman — that  she  was 
lonely.  All  the  times  when  the  superficialities  of 
her  life  were  laid  aside  and  the  real  issues  crowded 
upon  her,  in  those  times  she  was  without  compan- 
ionship. 

She  wondered  if  women  ever  found  any  satis- 
faction in  lives  lived  alone.  What  Adelaide  Wal- 
ters most  passionately  regretted  on  that  pathetic 
deathbed  was  not  the  mate  but  the  child  she  had 
never  had.  Felicity  had  never  thought  much  about 
motherhood  for  herself,  save  as  she  thought  wist- 

177 


Felicity 

fully,  at  times,  of  all  that  appertained  to  the  com- 
mon lot  and  that  seemed  denied  her;  what  she 
longed  for  most  was  companionship.  Perhaps  in 
old  age,  when  one  had  ceased  to  believe  in  the 
possibility  of  companionship,  one  cried  out  in  bit- 
ter regret  for  the  child  that  had  never  been.  Yes, 
there  must  be  a  time  when  women  cease  hoping  for 
one  who  shall  give  them  all,  and  find  their  happi- 
ness in  one  to  whom  they  can  give  all.  It  was 
piteous  to  be  defrauded  of  both  delights.  She 
wondered  if  women  who  were  not  mothers  always 
felt  as  Adelaide  Walters  felt,  when  life  was  done. 
Amelia,  with  the  reticence  of  her  race,  had  never 
been  communicative  on  such  subjects  as  this,  and 
Felicity,  hitherto,  had  not  been  sharply  moved  to 
question  her. 

Restless,  wide-eyed,  wondering,  she  got  up  and 
went  into  Amelia's  room,  with  a  vague,  uncon- 
fessed  idea  of  waking  her  and  putting  these  tortur- 
ing questions  to  her.  Perhaps  she  would  not  do 
that;  perhaps  she  would  only  get  beneath  the 
covers  with  Aunt  Elie  and  feel  the  warmth  of  her 
presence  and  not  try  to  speak; — anything  but  the 
cold  silence  of  that  room  of  hers,  empty  of  love 
and  of  the  least  evidence  of  human  companion- 
ship. 

To  Felicity  in  this  mood,  her  silent,  orderly,  lux- 
urious room  was  abhorrent,  so  she  went  into 
Amelia's,  drawn  thither  by  a  feeling  that  it  would 

178 


Questions  Never  Answered 

be  a  comfort  to  be  there,  even  if  she  did  not  speak. 
Perhaps  Aunt  Elie  would  stir  and  ask  her,  sleepily, 
what  she  wanted.  But  Aunt  Elie  did  not.  Then, 
impelled  by  a  wistfulness  greater  than  her  sense  of 
obligation  to  a  sick  old  woman's  rest,  she  put  out 
her  hand  in  the  dark  and  touched  Amelia ;  she  was 
cold,  quite  cold.  With  a  low  moan  of  utter  deso- 
lation, Felicity  fell  forward,  prostrate,  over  the 
uncomprehending  form. 

Felicity's  first  thought,  when  she  rallied  from 
the  shock  sufficiently  to  think,  was'  that  those  ques- 
tions she  had  come  to  ask  must  forever  be  unan- 
swered, now.  She  would  never  know  what  Amelia 
had  missed  out  of  life;  what  she  had  found,  in  all 
despite,  worth  while. 

She  had  no  disposition,  at  first,  to  call  any  aid 
or  make  any  outcry;  it  seemed  enough  to  sit  there 
by  Aunt  Elie  sleeping,  and  try  to  realize  what  life 
would  be  without  her.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
shrinking  from  the  excitement  that  would  ensue, 
of  a  wish  that  since  Amelia  was  gone,  she  might 
carry  the  deserted  tabernacle  away,  stealthily,  and 
hide  it  and  her  grief  alike  from  curious  eyes.  The 
thought  of  the  ordinary  panoply  of  death  was  inex- 
pressibly harrowing  to  her.  There  was  no  one  who 
really  cared — no  one  but  herself.  Why  should  she 
have  to  let  all  the  world  into  her  confidence  ?  She 
hated  the  thought  of  facing  audiences  acquainted 
with  her  grief;  hated  the  thought  of  being  watched, 

179 


Felicity 


on  and  off  the  stage,  by  alien  eyes,  looking  to  see 
how  she  bore  it. 

In  this  spirit  of  rebellion  against  intrusion,  this 
perfect  abandonment  to  her  sense  of  loneliness,  she 
kept  her  vigil  by  Amelia  till  the  early  dawn  was 
breaking.  Then,  chilled  into  rigidity,  she  waked 
Celeste,  very  quietly,  and  went  about  the  business 
of  summoning  a  physician  and  notifying  the  hotel 
people.  When  that  was  done,  she  shut  herself  in 
her  room  and  refused  to  see  any  one  but  Mr.  Lef- 
fler,  who  at  once  assumed  full  charge  of  everything. 

But  after  the  undertakers  had  gone,  she  took 
Vincent's  white  hyacinths  and  violets  from  the  vase 
where  Celeste  had  put  them  last  night,  and  laid 
them  in  one  waxen  hand,  and  after  that  she  sat  by 
the  still,  sheeted  figure  the  interminable  day 
through,  while  hushed  voices  dictated  a  multitude 
of  affairs  in  her  sitting-room. 

About  six  o'clock  Vincent  called.  He  had  read 
in  the  evening  papers  that  owing  to  the  death  of 
Miss  Fergus's  only  near  relative,  the  theatre  would 
be  closed.  There  had  been  no  matinee  and  would 
be  no  evening  performance,  but  Monday  night 
Miss  Fergus  would  appear. 

Felicity  had  thought  of  Vincent  more  than  once 
during  her  vigil  and  several  times  had  been  on  the 
point  of  sending  for  him  as  the  one  person  in  New 
York  likely  to  be  of  comfort  to  her.  But  it  seemed 
to  suit  her  better  to  wait  and  see  if  Vincent  would 

1 80 


Questions  Never  Answered 

come  to  her.  He  did,  very  promptly  on  hearing 
of  her  sorrow,  for  no  heart  could  be  tenderer  than 
Vincent's,  no  kindliness  quicker  to  act.  He  hated 
pain  and  the  sight  of  suffering,  and  always  avoided 
them  if,  in  his  favorite  phrase,  he  "  decently " 
could;  but  this  was  one  of  the  times  when  he  could 
not,  and  with  that  quickness  to  act  when  necessity 
demanded,  which  was  part  of  his  impulsive  temper- 
ament, Vincent  hastened  to  Felicity,  feeling  sure, 
somehow,  that  she  would  expect  him,  and  tenderly 
elated  at  the  thought. 

Felicity  had  given  orders  that  he  be  admitted, 
and  he  was  shown  at  once  up  to  her  sitting-room, 
where,  amid  a  good  deal  of  confusion  incident  to 
getting  off  on  the  midnight  train  for  Boston,  he 
found  her.  There  was  not  much  he  could  say, 
there  in  that  strange,  subdued  bustle,  and  he  was 
distinctly  ill  at  ease,  until,  when  he  had  asked  Lef- 
fler  if  he  could  be  of  any  service,  that  harried  young 
man  said,  "  Yes,"  fervently,  "  see  if  you  can't  get 
her  out  of  this  and  make  her  eat  something  some- 
where. I  can't  budge  her,  and  you  can  imagine 
what  she'll  eat  if  I  order  dinner  for  her  here.  If 
you  could  take  care  of  her  till  train  time  you'd  lift 
a  load  off  my  mind." 

Felicity  demurred  at  first.  "  I  can't  go  any- 
where," she  said,  fretfully,  "  everywhere  I  go,  peo- 
ple stare  at  me." 

"  No,  they  won't,"  Vincent  assured  her,  cheerily. 
181 


Felicity 

"  I'll  take  you  to  some  little  old  place  where  no- 
body'll  know  you  from  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and  get 
you  a  bottle  of  good  Chianti  and  some  Italian  stuff 
to  eat.  You've  got  to  eat,  you  know,"  he  charged, 
more  gravely,  "  you've  a  hard  journey  ahead  of 
you — two  nights  on  a  sleeper,  and  then,  Monday 
night,  back  to  work  again.  Come !  " 

She  went,  hidden  behind  a  thick  black  chiffon 
veil — glad  to  be  taken  charge  of,  glad  to  do  as  she 
was  bidden. 

Vincent  put  her  in  a  cab  and  gave  an  address  far 
downtown,  south  of  Fourteenth  Street  and  away 
from  the  bohemian  haunts  of  University  Place 
and  its  vicinity.  Then  he  got  in  beside  her  and 
dropped  both  the  windows  so  the  sweet  spring  air 
might  blow  in  refreshingly. 

Fifth  Avenue  was  crowded  as  they  threaded 
their  way  down  through  the  maze  of  vehicles,  and 
for  a  while  neither  of  them  spoke,  but  both  seemed 
absorbed  in  watching  the  passing  show.  Presently 
a  little  stifled  sob  escaped  her. 

"What  Is  it?"  he  asked,  with  awkward  gen- 
tleness. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  reply,  then  he  re- 
peated his  query. 

"  So  many  people,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "  so 
many  people,  and  no  one  belongs  to  me." 

"  Oh,  you've  got  any  amount  of  friends,"  re- 
minded Vincent,  "  and  worshippers — why,  all  these 

182 


I 


For  a  woman  in  her  position!     Why,  the  world  was  hers. 


Questions  Never  Answered 

people  are  your  worshippers.  You've  got  every- 
thing in  the  world  a  woman  could  possibly  want — 
fame  and  beauty  and  money  and  charm — every- 
thing but  a  lot  of  relatives — which  most  people 
that've  got  'em  don't  want — and  you  can  always 
get  those,  you  know !  " 

"  No,  you  can't;  not  the  kind  that  really  care. 
There's  nothing  in  this  world  so  hard  to  get  and 
keep  as  some  one  that  really  cares  for  you.  Aunt 
Elie  gave  up  everything  for  my  sake,  and  there'll 
never  be  any  one  who'll  do  a  hundredth  part  as 
much  for  me.  It  isn't  that  I  want  any  one  to  do 
things  for  me,"  she  explained,  smiling  a  little  at 
herself,  "  but  just  that  I  want  to  know  they  would 
if  I  needed  them." 

Vincent  felt  that  this  was  a  subtlety  too  fine  for 
him,  so  he  said  nothing.  His  attitude  toward  the 
world  was  essentially  simple  and  comprehended  a 
liking  for  nearly  every  one  who  treated  him  pleas- 
antly and  a  mild  dislike  of  those  who  did  not.  If 
some  he  had  liked  went  over  to  the  other  class  in 
his  scheme  of  things,  why,  there  were  always  re- 
cruits eligible  for  the  vacant  places.  He  could  not 
comprehend  Felicity's  woe,  but  he  was  sorry  she 
felt  any.  In  a  world  so  full  of  possible  pleasant- 
ness, it  was  a  pity  to  have  any  kind  of  woe  if  one 
could  help  it.  And  for  a  woman  in  her  position! 
Why,  the  world  was  hers;  there  wasn't  anything 
she  could  not  have  if  she  wanted  it. 

183 


Felicity 

He  set  himself  to  the  beguiling  of  her,  and  so 
far  succeeded  that  he  got  her  to  eat  a  very  good 
dinner — the  first  food  she  had  tasted  that  day. 

If  any  one  in  the  little  Italian  restaurant  recog- 
nized either  of  them,  no  one  paid  them  any  notice- 
able attention,  and  reassured  by  this  and  physically 
revived  by  the  food  and  wine,  Felicity  showed  an 
encouraging  appreciation  of  Vincent's  efforts. 

It  was  past  time  for  the  theatre  crowds  when 
they  left  the  little  restaurant,  and  Vincent  directed 
the  cabman  to  drive  straight  up  Fifth  Avenue  and 
avoid  the  Broadway  district. 

As  they  neared  the  Sandringham,  Felicity  began 
to  feel  the  pang  of  parting  from  him,  to  wish  that 
it  might  be  possible  for  him  to  be  with  her  to-mor- 
row in  Millville.  But  there  was  no  plausible  rea- 
son for  this.  With  so  many  to  do  for  her,  it  would 
be  ridiculous  to  ask  Vincent  to  go.  Indeed,  it 
would  not  do  at  all,  she  knew — and  chafed  against 
the  little  conventions  that  made  it  impossible  for 
the  one  friend  she  found  comforting  to  stand  by 
her  at  Amelia's  grave  without  causing  comment. 

'  You've  been  very  good  to  me,"  she  said,  when 
their  drive  was  almost  over;  "  it  seems  you're 
always  being  good  to  me.  All  my  recollections  of 
you  are  of  your  kindness  to  me  when  I  was  dis- 
tressed." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  said  Vincent,  "  I've  done  noth- 
ing— I  wish  I  had !  " 

184 


Questions  Never  Answered 

She  had  not  put  on  her  gloves  again,  and  he 
found  her  hand,  in  the  dark,  and  raised  it  to  his 
lips.  And  as  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  reverent 
caress  there  came  to  her  an  almost  uncontrollable 
impulse  to  lay  her  head  down  on  him  and  feel  his 
arms  enfold  her  as  on  that  night  so  long,  long  ago, 
the  memory  of  which  still  stirred  her  sweetly.  But 
they  were  within  a  block  of  the  hotel,  and  with  that 
curious  sense  of  convention  which  robs  the  majority 
of  us  of  all  abandon,  she  reflected  that  in  a  moment 
the  hotel  footman  would  be  opening  the  carriage 
door;  so  she  merely  pressed  the  hand  that  held 
hers,  lightly,  and  made  ready  to  step  out  as  soon  as 
the  cab  stopped. 

"  Don't  trouble  to  come  up,"  she  said,  "  there's 
nothing  you  can  do,  and  we'll  start  for  the  train  in 
a  little  while." 

"  May  I  look  in,  Monday,  for  a  few  minutes?  " 

"  Yes,  do,  please.    Good-night." 

Vincent  paid  and  dismissed  the  cabman,  and 
sauntered  over  in  the  direction  of  Broadway,  light- 
ing a  cigarette  as  he  started.  The  glare  of  the 
Rialto  was  his  panacea  for  all  kinds  of  blues,  but 
to-night  he  seemed  to  have  a  fit  of  abstraction  the 
familiar  seductions  could  not  dissipate. 


185 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"  NOT  WILLING  TO  BE  FELT  SORRY  FOR  "     * 

FRANCES  ALLSTON  .learned  early  of  the 
death  of  Amelia  and  the  coming  of  the  little 
funeral  party  to  lay  her  beside  her  father  and 
mother,  and  telegraphed  Felicity  an  offer  of  her 
hospitality,  which  Felicity  accepted,  gratefully. 
"  Services  from  here  if  you  wish,"  the  message 
said,  and  so  Amelia's  body  was  taken  to  Federal 
Street,  past  the  old  stone  house  she  had  left  twenty 
years  ago,  and  laid  in  Mrs.  Allston's  parlor. 

Felicity  wished  it  might  have  lain  at  last  in  the 
parlor  where  the  "  Covenanters "  had  looked 
down  from  the  wall  on  other  familiar  landmarks 
of  Amelia's  youth  and  maturity;  she  knew  that, 
brave  as  her  Aunt  Elie  always  was  about  the  lot 
she  had  chosen,  nothing  could  have  given  her — 
poor,  travel-tossed  soul — more  pleasure  than  to 
know  that  she  would  lie  in  the  old  stone  house  once 
more,  in  the  grim  parlor  where  her  father  and 
Cecile  and  Jane  herself  had  lain.  But,  this  being 
impossible,  Felicity  was  glad  indeed  that  they  could 
go  to  Frances  Allston's. 

Standing  on  the  porch  of  that  home  where  she 
186 


"Not  Willing  to  be  Felt  Sorry  for" 

had  spent  so  many  entranced  hours  with  The  Old 
Man,  she  remembered  a  hundred  comforting  things 
he  had  told  her — just  as  he  knew  she  would — and 
any  bitterness  of  regret  she  might  have  felt  in 
Amelia's  behalf  faded  as  she  reflected  how  he 
would  have  said,  "  The  luck  o'  the  road,  my  dear, 
the  luck  o'  the  road.  You  can't  cultivate  still  gar- 
dens and  know  the  zest  of  the  march  at  the  same 
time.  It  isn't  honorable  to  regret  your  choice;  the 
only  honor  is  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

They  laid  Amelia  away  in  the  early  afternoon, 
and  afterwards  Felicity  returned  to  the  Allstons' 
for  a  rest  and  visit  before  leaving  on  the  6 130  train 
for  Boston.  Adams  was  in  business  with  his 
father  and  living  at  home,  and  she  enjoyed  talking 
with  him  of  the  old  days.  She  told  them  all 
of  her  evening  in  Morton's  home,  and  when 
she  and  Frances  Allston  were  alone,  that  motherly 
woman  whispered  to  her  a  secret  about  Morton's 
hopes. 

It  was  train  time  in  an  incredibly  short  space, 
and  Felicity  was  gone,  regretfully,  from  Mill- 
ville.  After  she  left,  Frances  sat  alone  in  the  twi- 
light on  her  little  side  porch  overlooking  the  old 
stone  house,  and  thought  of  many  things,  tending 
chiefly  to  the  same  eager  question.  The  little  girl 
she  and  her  father  had  talked  about,  that  long  ago 
day  after  the  show  in  the  barn,  was  now  an  exqui- 
sitely beautiful  and  wonderfully  gifted  woman,  to 

187 


Felicity 

whom  art  and  beauty  had  brought  all  the  rewards 
the  world  can  give  a  woman.  And  yet  there  was 
nothing  triumphant  about  Felicity;  rather,  she 
seemed  to  incarnate  a  deep,  unspeakable  wistful- 
ness.  Frances  wondered.  She  knew  the  artist 
type  too  well  to  jump  ignorantly  as  the  unknowing 
world  does  to  the  conclusion  that  Felicity  must 
have  had  great  personal  sorrow  to  make  her  so 
pensively  inclined.  She  knew  that  the  very  same 
supersensitiveness  which  made  her  so  keen  to  feel 
the  comedy  of  life  made  her  equally  keen  to  feel 
its  tragedy,  and  that  a  temperament  so  finely 
pitched  may  be  harassed  to  frenzy  by  things  an- 
other temperament  would  not  notice,  worn  out  by 
sympathies  another  temperament  would  not  feel. 
She  remembered  her  father  illustrating  this  for 
her,  once  in  her  girlhood,  by  breathing  on  a  sur- 
face of  highly  polished  silver  and  then  on  a  surface 
of  unpolished  wood.  "  The  lightest  breath  stains 
bright  surfaces,"  he  said,  "  the  tiniest  clouds  reflect 
in  sunny  pools."  Still,  she  wondered.  He  had 
taught  her  to  wonder  deeply  about  everything; 
to  feel  constantly  that  alert  curiosity  that  gives  life 
its  zest. 

Monday  night  in  her  dressing-room  before  the 
first  act,  Felicity  fought  the  hardest  fight  of  her 
life  thus  far.  She  thought  she  had  learned  to 
stifle  all  her  own  feelings  and  "  go  on  game,"  as 

188 


"Not  Willing  to  be  Felt  Sorry  for" 

The  Old  Man  used  to  say,  whatever  happened, 
But  to-night  she  had  a  shrinking  from  the  audi- 
ence she  could  hardly  overcome.  While  she  was 
wrestling  with  it  there  came  a  telegram  from  Mor- 
ton in  Chicago : 

"  Thinking  of  you.  Rease  accept  roses  as  expression  of 
sympathy." 

Before  her  call  came,  the  pink  roses  he  had  wired 
for  arrived,  and  gave  her,  somehow,  the  courage 
she  had  needed.  She  had  longed  for  The  Old 
Man  to-night  as  never  before  in  all  her  need  of 
him,  and  the  familiar  pink  roses,  the  message  from 
Morton,  seemed  a  wonderfully  sweet  substitute 
for  Phineas  himself  and  all  that  he  stood  for  in 
her  mind. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  temper  of  the  audi- 
ence that  night.  Felicity  was,  perhaps,  as  little 
conscious  of  her  audience,  generally,  as  an  artist 
could  be,  but  she  always  felt  its  temper  as  any 
mercurial  thing  feels  fine  gradations  of  heat  or 
cold,  and  to-night  she  was  instantly  conscious  of 
the  attitude  that  bespoke  acquaintance  with  her 
grief  and  wonder  whether  she  would  be  able  to 
win  laughs  in  spite  of  it. 

To  one  who  so  long  had  been  envied,  pity  was  a 
new  sensation  and  one  she  resented.  The  Old  Man 
would  have  shaken  his  head  to  think  how  far  she 
had  yet  to  travel  before  she  was  a  real  comedienne, 

189 


Felicity 


worthy  of  the  great  company  that  has  given  the 
world  its  sweetest  smiles. 

"  Not  willing  to  be  laughed  at?  "  he  was  wont 
to  say,  "  and  yet  keen  to  laugh  at  others!  Not 
willing  to  be  felt  sorry  for?  and  yet  proud  to 
call  yourself  sympathetic!  Such  snobbery!  Such 
aloofness !  " 

Felicity  had  heard  him  say  this  a  score  of  times, 
but  no  recollection  of  it  came  to  her,  as  it  would, 
later.  Instead,  something  flashed  over  the  foot- 
lights from  her  to  her  audience  that  seemed  to 
say,  "  Keep  your  sympathy  to  yourselves;  I  want 
none  of  it.  And  your  laughter  I  can  get,  for  that's 
my  business  and  I  am  equal  to  it." 

She  was  equal  to  it,  but  after  she  had  sent  her 
audience  home  smiling,  it  was  a  woman  with  a 
strange  new  hardness  in  her  heart  who  left  the 
theatre  and  was  driven  back  to  that  silent  suite  of 
rooms  where  Amelia's  bed  stood  empty  and  her 
favorite  rocking  chair  in  the  sitting-room  was  as 
eloquent  as  the  riderless  horse  in  a  hero-general's 
"  last  parade." 

Mr.  Leffler  had  tried  to  persuade  Felicity  not 
to  return  to  the  Sandringham,  but  to  go  to  some 
hotel  where  she  would  be  less  reminded  of  Amelia, 
but  Felicity  refused,  with  some  show  of  obstinacy, 
on  the  ground  that  after  she  left  these  rooms  she 
would  never  again  have  an  abiding-place  that 
reminded  her  of  Amelia — except  Briarwopd,  where 

190 


"Not  Willing  to  be  Felt  Sorry  for" 

she  could  not  hope  to  be  very  much — and  so  she 
would  cling  to  this  one  as  long  as  possible.  In 
the  summer  she  would  go  abroad,  instead  of  trying 
the  seashore  cottage  alone  or  with  a  hired  com- 
panion. 

She  had  thought  a  good  deal  about  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  companion.  Somewhere  in  the  wide, 
wide  world,  it  would  seem,  there  must  be  a  com- 
panionable soul  who  would  be  willing,  if  not 
glad,  to  live  and  travel  with  Felicity  Fergus.  But 
was  there  one  Felicity  would  be  glad  to  have? 
She  could  not  think  of  one  among  the  women 
she  knew,  except  Frances  Allston;  and  Frances 
Allston  was  bound  by  other  ties.  Probably  every- 
body worth  having  was  bound  by  other  ties;  unat- 
tached folks  were  pretty  apt  to  be  folks  nobody 
wanted,  not  even  others  who  were  equally  unat- 
tached. It  was  a  hard  world  for  a  lone  woman, 
she  reflected,  as  she  crept  into  her  bed  and  lay 
there,  thinking.  The  plaudits  of  the  theatre 
seemed  worlds  away,  and,  aching  with  self-pity 
she  recalled  the  lines  in  Aurora  Leigh,  her  favor- 
ite poem : 

"How  dreary  'tis  for  women  to  sit  still 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off." 

And  in  a  passion  of  loneliness  she  cried  herself 
to  sleep. 

191 


Felicity 


Vincent  had  meant  to  call  Monday,  but  he  for- 
got. Sunday,  he  had  chanced  upon  an  old  friend 
in  New  York  for  a  short  stay,  and  together  they 
had  started  in  to  enjoy  the  sights.  The  way  Vin- 
cent happened  to  remember  about  Felicity  was: 
while  he  and  the  friend  were  at  Niblo's  Monday 
night,  seeing  Mrs.  Potter  and  Bellew,  the  friend 
remarked,  "  I  see  Felicity  Fergus  is  playing  here. 
I  want  to  see  her." 

"  Gee  whiz !  "  said  Vincent. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Miss  Fergus  is  an  old  friend  o'  mine — we 
played  together  years  ago — and  last  Friday  night 
her  aunt  died.  The  old  lady  was  her  only  relative, 
and  Miss  Fergus  was  terribly  cut  up.  The  funeral 
was  yesterday,  in  Massachusetts,  and  the  poor 
girl's  playing  again  to-night.  I  promised  to  call 
on  her  to-day  to  cheer  her  up,  and  I  clean,  plum 
forgot  it.  I  always  forget  things!  Seems  as  if 
I  can  never  think  of  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  and 
today  it  was  you.  But  we'll  see  her  to-morrow 
night,  and  if  she'll  let  me,  I'll  take  you  back  to 
meet  her." 

Vincent  meant  to  get  around  to  the  Sandringham 
Tuesday  afternoon,  but  somehow  he  did  not  man- 
age it.  After  the  first  act  that  night,  though,  he 
sent  her  a  card  asking  if  he  might  take  a  friend 
back. 

Felicity  was  no  little  hurt  by  her  failure  to  hear 
192 


"Not  Willing  to  be  Felt  Sorry  for" 

anything  of  Vincent  these  two  days,  but  she  sent 
word  that  he  might  come,  and  received  him  and 
his  friend  with  her  usual  shy  gentleness  and  sent 
the  friend  away  with  the  usual  wonder  about  her 
charm. 

"  You  wouldn't  think,  to  talk  with  her,  that 
she  was  the  woman  to  make  thousands  laugh  and 
cry,  would  you?"  commented  the  friend,  when 
they  were  back  in  their  seats  again. 

"  No,"  said  Vincent,  "  not  meeting  her  that  way 
you  wouldn't.  But  you  ought  to  see  her  when 
she's  worked  up  to  one  of  her  comedy  moods  in 
conversation.  People  of  her  sort  are  all  moods, 
you  know :  sometimes  'way  up,  and  sometimes  'way 
down — and  much  o'  the  time  so  tired  out  with  the 
last  mood  that  they  haven't  any  mood  at  all.  But 
it's  worth  waiting  for,  to  see  her  in  one  of  her 
entrancing  moods." 

"Lively,  then,  eh?" 

"Well,  no;  I  wouldn't  call  it  lively — not  even 
vivacious,  I  guess.  But  it's  something  I'll  bet  you 
never  saw  the  like  of  in  your  life.  I'll  never  for- 
get her  last  Friday  at  luncheon.  Seems  as  if,  if 
I  knew  her  a  thousand  years,  I'd  always  be  watch- 
ing for  that  mood  to  come  'round  again.  But  you 
can't  coax  her  into  'em ;  they  just  happen,  or  they 
don't— that's  all." 

"  Kind  o'  capricious  lady?  " 

"  No ;  it  isn't  caprice.    Goshen,  no !  she  wouldn't 

193 


Felicity 

condescend  to  caprice,  and  you  couldn't  get  so  in- 
terested in  her  if  you  thought  she  was  coquetting 
with  you  like  the  rank  and  file  o'  women  folks. 
It's — well,  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  it's  the 
essence  of  fascination,  as  near  as  I  can  make  out." 

"  Every  man  who  sees  her  is  crazy  about  her,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  Never  heard  of  any  that  was — on  the  con- 
trary. She  isn't  at  all  the  sort  men  go  crazy  about, 
except  at  a  distance.  She's  too  stand-offish  for 
many  to  get  acquainted  with,  and  when  you  do 
know  her,  she  piques  your  interest,  but  that's  all. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  her,  unless  it's  her 
Puritan  blood,  but  she  isn't  a  bit  of  a  siren.  I 
guess  if  I  was  a  word-splitter  I'd  say  she  appeals 
to  your  mind  but  not  to  your  senses — something 
like  that.  Anyway,  she  gives  an  ordinary,  every- 
day sort  of  human  man  the  impression  that  she'd  be 
terribly  uncomfortable  to  live  up  to — and  you  know 
how  men  like  that !  A  little  of  it  goes  a  long  way." 

11  Well,  I  declare !  "  exclaimed  the  friend,  who 
had  never  dreamed  of  a  possible  woman  a  man 
might  find  infinitely  fascinating  and  yet  not  desira- 
ble. "  Couldn't  you  ask  her  to  go  to  supper 
with  us?  " 

"  She  never  goes  to  supper;  but  I  could  ask  her 
to  lunch.  I  don't  know  that  she'd  come,  but  I 
could  ask;  she  might." 

And  he  did  ask — feeling  a  little  mean  about 
194 


"Not  Willing  to  be  Felt  Sorry  for" 

it,  however,  because  it  did  not  seem  that  his  friend 
could  be  in  the  least  degree  interesting  to  Felicity 
and  it  was  a  shame  to  ask  her  just  to  show  his 
rich  and  lion-loving  friend  that  he  could.  Vincent 
was  nearly  "  strapped,"  as  he  called  it,  and  the 
friend  was  in  New  York  to  have  a  big  time,  as  big 
as  could  be  bought  by  his  abundance.  He  had 
wined  and  dined  chorus  girls  and  comic  opera 
singers  without  number,  but  he  had  never  been 
nearer  than  across  the  footlights  to  a  woman  of 
Felicity's  talent  and  distinction  and  he  was  willing 
to  pay  well  for  the  privilege  of  saying :  "  At  a 
little  lunch  I  gave  Miss  Fergus,  the  other  day  " — 
willing  to  pay  Vincent,  not  in  coin,  which  would 
have  been  intolerable,  but  in  dinners  and  suppers 
and  lunches  and  drives  throughout  his  stay  in  New 
York.  As  well  as  if  they  had  actually  bargained 
to  this  effect,  Vincent  knew  it  was  so,  and  had 
misgivings  as  to  whether  it  was  quite  "  the  decent 
thing  to  do."  But,  pshaw !  The  fellow  was  all 
right,  and  who  knew?  Felicity  might  find  him 
unexpectedly  worth  while  from  some  of  her  many 
points  of  view.  So  he  asked  her,  and  to  his  sur- 
prise, she  accepted. 

His  friend,  elated  by  the  unusualness  of  getting 
Miss  Fergus  to  lunch,  wanted  to  ask  other  people 
and  make  a  function  of  it,  but  Vincent  restrained 
him. 

"  She's  in  deep  sorrow,"  he  said,  "  and  not  ac- 

195 


Felicity 

cepting  any  social  courtesies.  And  besides,  if  you 
want  to  show  her  off  to  your  friends,  you'd  better 
take  'em  to  the  theatre;  she's  sure  to  be  charming 
there,  and  the  chances  of  her  appearing  to  advan- 
tage at  a  table  full  of  strangers  are  not  worth 
that,"  and  Vincent  snapped  his  fingers. 

So  they  lunched  together  at  Delmonico's  in  the 
most  casual  manner  Vincent  could  persuade  his 
friend  into.  ''  The  minute  you  begin  to  order  a 
world  of  stuff  and  make  a  fuss  about  it,  you  bore 
her,"  he  explained.  The  friend  was  incredulous, 
but  obedient. 

Vincent  was  surprised  at  Felicity  that  day,  and 
never  knew  what  made  her  so  charming.  How 
could  he  know  that  when  she  felt  a  hundred  recog- 
nizing eyes  upon  her  in  her  black  dress,  she  deter- 
mined that  not  one  of  those  curious  eyes  should 
see  into  the  loneliness  of  her  heart?  The  defiant 
mood  was  still  dominant.  Her  grief  was  her  own 
and  the  world  should  not  take  account  of  it.  In 
this  spirit  of  bravado  she  had  accepted  the  invita- 
tion, and  in  this  spirit  she  exercised  all  her  art  to 
make  the  occasion  memorable.  She  had  few  inter- 
ests in  common  with  Vincent's  friend,  but  he  was 
frankly  fascinated  with  the  theatre  and  everything 
that  appertained  to  its  life  and  its  people,  and  when 
she  found  that  her  reminiscences  and  Vincent's 
delighted  their  host  inexpressibly,  she  launched  into 
anecdote  in  a  way  in  which  she  was  inimitable. 

196 


"Not  Willing  to  be  Felt  Sorry  for" 

'  You  see  the  funny  side  of  everything,  don't 
you?  "  said  her  host,  wiping  his  eyes,  after  laugh- 
ing until  he  cried. 

As  if  rebuked  by  this  intended  compliment, 
Felicity  answered  quickly,  "  I  have  to;  I  feel  the 
sad  side  so  deeply  that  if  I  didn't  see  the  funny  side 
too,  I'd  die." 

Her  host  looked  baffled,  and  Felicity,  after  that 
one  outburst,  saw  the  impossibility  of  making  him 
understand,  and  soon  rose  to  go. 

"  My !  but  that  was  like  her,"  said  Vincent,  when 
they  had  driven  her  where  she  desired  to  be  left 
to  keep  an  appointment.  "  Gives  you  a  curious 
feeling,  doesn't  it,  to  have  her  slip  up  on  you  that 
way?  You  think  you're  travelling  neck  and  neck 
with  her,  matched  to  a  point,  and  the  next  thing 
you  know  she's  a  lap  ahead  of  you  and  running 
like  the  wind.  Nothing  for  you  to  do  but  slacken 
down  and  call  the  race  off.  I  can't  get  used  to  it." 

It  was  no  wonder  poor  Vincent  was  bewildered. 
But  if  Felicity's  art  made  her  a  more  success- 
ful experimenter  with  moods  than  the  ordinary 
woman,  it  was  a  difference  only  of  degree;  there 
was  a  sheer  femininity  about  her,  after  all,  that 
would  have  been  delicious,  if  one  could  have  under- 
stood that  it  was  the  woman  and  not  the  "  star  " 
who  acted.  But  it  was  her  penalty  that  people  were 
always  trying  to  find  her  ordinariness  extraordinary. 


197 


CHAPTER   XIV 


WHEN  the  warm,  bright  May  days  were 
established  and  the  fitfulness  of  April 
was  left  behind,  Felicity  became  possessed  of  a 
great  yearning  for  the  country,  and  when  she  could 
shake  herself  free  of  professional  engagements 
during  the  day,  would  take  a  train  up  to  the  neigh- 
borhood of  University  Heights  or  cross  on  the 
Weehawken  ferry  to  the  Jersey  shore  and  plunge 
into  the  freshly-green  woods  of  the  palisades. 
But  hers  was  not  the  spirit  that  could  be  happy 
uncompanioned  in  the  country;  she  wanted  some 
one  by  her,  enjoying  things  as  she  enjoyed  them, 
hearing  the  same  bird  sing,  in  Stevenson's  phrase, 
entranced  and  transfigured  in  the  same  way  as  she. 
The  Old  Man  had  taught  her  the  intoxicating 
sweetness  of  such  companionship,  and  the  deep 
draughts  she  had  drunk  of  it  at  his  hand  had  left 
her  with  a  craving  for  more,  always  for  more. 

There  was  a  girl  in  her  company,  a  slip  of  a 
young  thing  named  Arline  Prentiss,  who  played 
very  much  such  ingenue  roles  as  Felicity  herself 

198 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

had  played  a  dozen  years  ago,  in  whom  Felicity 
felt  a  considerable  interest.  She  encountered  little 
Miss  Prentiss  one  warm  evening  as  she  was  enter- 
ing the  theatre,  and  the  girl  held  out  to  Felicity 
a  bunch  of  sweet,  single  violets  she  had  just  bought 
from  a  street  flower-seller. 

"  Smell  my  springtime,"  said  Arline,  shyly, 
holding  out  her  little  bouquet.  "  I  just  had  to 
have  something  '  spring-y,'  "  she  went  on,  as  Felic- 
ity buried  her  nose  in  the  fragrant,  wet  violets, 
"  it  seems  stifling  to  come  in  out  of  all  that  fresh- 
ness to  the  close,  musty  theatre,  doesn't  it?" 

Felicity  had  never  heard  the  girl  express  herself 
in  this  wise  before,  and  a  touch  of  wistfulness  in 
Arline's  manner  arrested  her  star's  attention  more 
effectually  than  anything  else  could  have  done. 
The  child  must  be  lonely,  too,  she  thought — stage 
life  was  so  hard  for  a  girl  like  that.  Stopping 
outside  her  dressing-room  door  she  handed  back 
the  violets  and,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  said : 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  to  the  country  with 
me  to-morrow?  Come  to  my  hotel  at  ten,  and 
we'll  go  somewhere  and  see  the  real  springtime." 

Arline  looked  almost  startled,  for  an  instant, 
then  her  delight  overcame  every  other  feeling  and 
she  cried  happily: 

1  Yes,  ma'am,  oh,  yes'm,  I'd  love  to  go!  "  and 
was  away,  up  the  spiral  iron  staircase  to  her  lofty 
dressing-room. 

199 


Felicity 

Felicity  found  herself  looking  forward  with 
peculiar  pleasure  to  the  morrow.  She  was  sur- 
prised, when  she  came  to  think  of  it,  that  she  had 
never  thought  of  asking  Arline  before.  When 
she  remembered  what  The  Old  Man  had  been  to 
her  when  she  was  Arline's  age,  she  marvelled  that 
she  could  so  far  have  forgotten  her  decent  obliga- 
tions as  to  have  no  thought  of  passing  on  some 
degree  of  like  pleasure  to  a  lonely  little  mummer 
in  her  own  company.  Truth  to  tell,  she  had  never 
thought  of  herself  as  having  anything  to  pass  on 
compared  with  what  The  Old  Man  had  given  her, 
and  she  had  not,  of  course — nor  yet  of  his  lavish 
winsomeness,  and  his  content  to  keep  giving  and 
giving  in  a  quarter  whence  he  could  get  little  but 
the  spur  of  deep  attention.  But  she  had  not, 
either,  come  to  that  age  where  her  loneliness,  long 
since  despairing  of  anything  like  equable  compan- 
ionship, could  be  put  to  flight  by  the  pleasure  of 
reminiscence  and  the  benevolence  of  stimulating 
youth. 

"  If  only,"  she  thought,  as  she  laid  her  head  on 
her  pillow  that  night,  "  that  child  shows  some  spirit 
of  willingness  to  accept  me  as  a  human  being  and 
forget  that  I  am  a  '  star,'  I  may  have  a  happy  day 
to-morrow.  /  never  was  conscious  of  The  Old 
Man's  celebrity.  I  rated  him  solely  for  what  he 
was  to  me,  and  I  don't  doubt  that's  why  he  liked  my 
company  so  well." 

200 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

But  Arline,  when  she  was  shown  into  Felicity's 
sitting-room  the  next  morning  at  ten,  was  quite 
evidently  conscious  she  was  going  out  with  her 
star,  and  showed  a  constraint  of  manner  which 
was  only  in  a  small  degree  her  fault,  and  in  greater 
degree  Felicity's,  and  in  greatest  degree  the  fault 
of  circumstance.  It  is  a  very  delicate  business,  this 
business  of  being  famous — of  working  like  mad 
to  demonstrate  that  you  are  extraordinary,  and 
then  exacting  of  people  that  degree  of  deference 
that  proves  your  power,  nicely  concealed  under 
that  degree  of  friendliness  which  makes  you  com- 
fortable. 

Arline  had  never  been  to  Miss  Fergus's  rooms, 
the  background  of  her  unprofessional  hours,  be- 
fore, and  she  was  fascinated  by  their  luxury  and 
the  evidences  of  popularity  they  showed.  Aspiring 
girl  that  she  was,  she  was  seeing  herself  in  like 
situation,  some  day,  and  was  so  palpably  impressed 
by  the  emoluments  of  fame  that  Felicity,  herself 
impatient  with  the  failure  of  the  emoluments  to 
satisfy,  was  impatient,  too,  with  the  little  eager 
girl,  for  not  knowing  how  ashy  was  the  Dead 
Sea  fruit  that  hung  above  her  reach. 

They  took  a  New  York  Central  train  and  went 
up  the  river  as  far  as  Yonkers,  then  wandered  off 
on  foot  toward  the  open  country  to  the  east.  In 
a  grocery  they  passed  on  their  way  through  town, 
Felicity  bought  fruit  and  crackers  and  cheese,  dal- 

201 


Felicity 


lying  so  delightedly  over  her  purchases  and  show- 
ing such  interest  in  the  stock  that  the  grocer  was 
amused. 

"  How  much  cheese,"  she  asked  earnestly,  "  do 
you  suppose  we  two  could  eat?  " 

The  grocer  was  not  sure  whether  this  was  a 
catch-question  or  a  joke  or  mere  young-housekeeper 
ignorance,  so  he  cross-questioned,  Yankee-wise: 

"When?    At  one  time?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  picnic  luncheon." 

"  I  should  think  half  a  pound  would  be  plenty." 
He  indicated  with  his  broad  cheese  knife  about 
how  big  a  slice  half  a  pound  would  be.  Felicity 
laughed. 

"  That's  cheese  rations  for  a  month,"  she  said. 
"  Can't  you  cut  a  littler  piece — cut  a  quarter?  " 

Then  she  made  like  estimates  of  their  capacity 
in  sweet  and  soda  crackers,  in  pickles  and  dried 
dates,  and  deliberated  about  the  purchase  of  a  can 
of  sardines  with  a  patented  opening  device. 

She  was  so  honestly  enjoying  herself  that  the 
grocer  waited  on  her  with  a  relish  he  would  not 
have  dreamed  possible  short  of  a  big,  general- 
replenishing  order. 

"  Wasn't  that  fun?  "  she  cried  to  Arline,  when 
they  were  out  upon  their  way,  bundle-laden.  But 
Arline  could  not  comprehend. 

"  I  guess  you  never  had  to  buy  your  real  meals 
that  way,"  she  said. 

202 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

"  No,"  admitted  Felicity,  "  I  never  did." 

'  Well,  I  have,"  the  girl  answered,  in  a  tone 
that  made  Felicity  stop  and  face  her. 

"  You  must  think  I'm  crazy,"  she  said,  self- 
reproachfully,  "  and  I  guess  I  am — bringing  you 
out  here  on  this  queer  orgy  of  mine  to  treat  you  to 
a  tramp  on  the  roads  and  a  lunch  of  crackers. 
What  I  ought  to  have  done  to  give  you  pleasure 
was  to  take  you  for  a  long  drive  in  Central  Park, 
in  a  victoria,  behind  a  pair  of  horses  with  clank- 
ing chains,  and  then  given  you  a  luncheon  at 
Delmonico's." 

Arline  protested,  but  so  feebly  that  Felicity  was 
the  more  convinced.  To  abandon  the  jaunt  would 
have  mortified  the  girl,  keenly,  so  they  kept  on; 
but  Felicity  had  lost  her  zest  for  it,  and  after  a 
fair  pretence  at  enjoying  the  country,  they  took 
an  early  train  for  town. 

"  Now,  you  keep  this  cab,"  said  Felicity,  at  the 
door  of  the  Sandringham,  where  they  arrived  about 
half-past  four,  "  and  go  home  and  dress  up  a  bit — 
I  know  you'd  rather — and  come  back  here  within 
an  hour  and  we'll  go  to  Delmonico's  to  dine.  I'm 
bound  you  sha'n't  be  starved,  poor  child,  on  the 
day  I  dragged  you  off  on  one  of  my  freakish  fes- 
tivities." 

Accordingly,  at  a  little  before  six  the  two  went 
into  Delmonico's  where,  on  Mr.  Leffler's  orders,  a 
table  was  in  readiness  for  Miss  Fergus,  who  was 

203 


Felicity 

shown  to  it  with  a  marked  deference  that  delighted 
her  guest.  In  accordance  with  the  rule  of  the 
restaurant,  Leffler  was  "  retained,"  but  he  had  a 
genius  for  being  present  and  yet  not  present,  which 
made  him  one  of  the  most  sought-after  men  in  his 
exacting  business. 

Arline  was  radiant;  early  diners  coming  in  rec- 
ognized Felicity  at  once  and  their  table  was  a 
focus  of  interest  which  gave  the  aspiring  girl 
thrills  of  present  satisfaction  and  foreshadowed 
triumph.  Felicity,  fighting  against  her  own  disap- 
pointment and  striving,  in  real  contrition  for  her 
selfish  mistake,  to  give  her  guest  a  happy  time  at 
last,  was  charming,  though  conscious  of  a  gracious- 
ness  in  her  manner  which  she  hated.  The  Old 
Man  was  never  gracious,  she  reflected;  he  was 
delightful  because  he  wanted  to  be,  could  not  help 
being — or  he  was  not  delightful  at  all,  did  not  stay 
in  the  vicinity.  Why  did  she  never  seem  to  learn 
his  ways? 

As  they  were  finishing  their  dinner,  Vincent  came 
in,  with  a  party  of  eight.  He  was  looking  unusu- 
ally handsome,  even  for  him,  and  was  in  blithe 
good  spirits  of  the  sort  that  Felicity  had  so  often, 
of  late,  found  contagious. 

;<  Well,  well !  "  he  cried,  gayly,  coming  over  to 
her  table  and  grasping  in  the  heartiest  friendliness 
the  hand  she  held  out  to  him,  "  what's  up  ?  having 
a  party?  " 

204 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

'Yes — don't  we  look  party-fied?  Miss  Pren- 
tiss,  Mr.  Delano." 

"  Why,  this  is  Caroline!  "  said  Vincent,  calling 
her  by  the  name  she  bore  in  the  play,  and  shaking 
her  hand  quite  as  heartily  as  he  had  shaken 
Felicity's. 

Arline  flushed  with  pleasure.  Vincent  had  not 
ceased  to  thrill  the  hearts  of  sweet  sixteen;  his 
fame  as  a  popular  idol  was  not  yet  dim  by  any 
means,  though  there  were  younger  men  climbing 
into  his  place,  or  toward  it. 

He  chatted  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  turned  to 
rejoin  his  party,  but  as  he  moved  away  Felicity 
laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,"  she  said.  ''  When  can 
you  come  and  have  a  talk  with  me  ?  " 

Vincent  pondered.  For  an  unoccupied  man  he 
was  extraordinarily  busy,  and  though  he  did  not 
always  keep  the  full  quota  of  his  engagements,  he 
always  tried  to — always  made  an  effort  to  remem- 
ber what  else  he  had  promised  before  further 
engaging  any  specific  time. 

"  I  could  come  Sunday  evening,"  he  said,  after 
a  little  thought,  "  would  that  do?  " 

"  Admirably.     Will  you  come  to  dinner?  " 

"  No,"  said  Vincent  quickly,  thinking  of  a 
probable  dinner  in  the  sitting-room  where  he 
had  seen  Aunt  Elie  lying,  coffined,  and  dread- 
ing a  too  quiet  tete-a-tete.  "  No,  I'll  come  for  you 

205 


Felicity 


at  seven  and  take  you  some  place  you  never 
were  before." 

"Where?" 

"  Sha'n't  tell  you — it's  to  be  a  surprise;  that's 
the  best  part  of  it." 

He  moved  off,  laughing,  leaving  her  laughing 
too.  Arline  looked  after  him  with  shining  eyes. 
Nothing  in  Felicity's  success  so  impressed  her  as 
the  terms  on  which  she  could  meet  Vincent  Delano. 
"  Isn't  he  perfectly  splendid?  "  she  exclaimed  with 
girlish  exuberance.  And  Felicity,  smiling  at  her, 
remembered  a  girl  who  had  slept  with  Vincent's 
picture  under  her  pillow  and  worn  his  letters  next 
her  heart.  She  told  Arline  of  the  night  in  Cin- 
cinnati— with  reservations — and  enjoyed  the  girl's 
enthusiasm  for  Vincent's  chivalry  more  than  she 
had  enjoyed  anything  in  many  a  day. 

"  And  how  proud  he  must  be  of  you  now !  " 
cried  Arline,  scenting  a  romance  and  not  disingenu- 
ous enough  to  give  the  lie  to  her  suspicion. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  Felicity  shrugged  her 
shoulders  in  a  manner  intended  to  convey  much 
lightness  of  mind  with  regard  to  herself  and  Vin- 
cent; but  Arline  was  not  deceived. 

That  was  Thursday  night  of  the  last  week  but 
one  of  her  season.  In  ten  days  she  would  be  free, 
but  she  was  without  an  idea  of  what  she  wanted  to 
do  with  her  freedom.  This  was  the  first  summer 

206 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

she  had  ever  had  to  spend  alone  and  she  shrank 
from  every  thought  of  it  as  if  such  shrinking  would 
keep  her  from  the  actuality. 

As  Sunday  night  drew  near  she  fell  to  wondering 
what  she  could  say  to  Vincent  that  would  seem  like 
a  definite  reason  for  wanting  to  talk  with  him  and 
would  not  betray  her  desire  merely  to  see  him 
and  enjoy  him.  Her  unwillingness  to  bid  him 
come  for  the  latter  reason,  ought  to  have  warned 
her  that  she  was  getting  "  deep  in,"  but  it  did  not, 
and  she  continued,  without  suspecting  herself,  to 
feel  around  in  her  mind  for  some  matter-of-fact 
topic  wherewith  to  justify  that  detaining  hand  on 
his  arm,  that  urgent  bidding  to  him  to  come. 

When  he  arrived  she  was  still  without  a  shadow 
of  an  excuse  for  having  summoned  him,  but  she 
need  not  have  worried;  Vincent  gave  no  sign  of 
expecting  one,  but  acted  as  if  it  were  the  most 
natural,  inevitable  thing  in  the  world  that  Felicity 
should  ask  him  to  come  and  see  her,  and  that  he 
should  come.  His  complete  ease  of  manner  put 
her  at  once  in  a  like  mood,  and  she  laughed  as 
happily  as  a  child  anticipating  a  treat,  as  he  helped 
her  into  her  little  coat.  She  teased  to  know  where 
they  were  going,  but  he  only  looked  mysterious 
and  refused  to  answer. 

"  Do  you  mind  a  walk,  or  shall  I  call  a  cab?  " 
he  asked  when  they  reached  the  street. 

"  I'd  rather  walk,"  she  assured  him;  and  they 
207 


Felicity 

went  through  to  Broadway  and  then  down,  on 
that  brilliant  thoroughfare,  to  a  restaurant  much 
patronized  by  lesser  (and  some  few  greater)  the- 
atrical and  racing  people  and  by  that  part  of  the 
general  public  that  dearly  likes  to  look  at  its  enter- 
tainers at  the  close  range  of  a  neighboring  table. 

Felicity  had  never  been  here,  had  never  felt  any 
desire  to  come,  but  to-night  the  glare  of  it,  the  blare 
of  the  noisy  orchestra,  the  self-conscious  chatter 
of  the  crowd,  were  by  no  means  an  unwel- 
come novelty.  Vincent  was  on  his  native  heath; 
he  walked  with  a  joyous  step  and,  as  Felicity  said, 
quoting  her  Lewis  Carroll,  "  burbled  as  he  came." 
He  loved  the  lilt  of  the  air  the  orchestra  was 
playing — Little  Annie  Rooney — and  hummed  it 
audibly  as  he  followed  the  head  waiter  down 
the  long  lines  of  people,  many  of  whom  he  knew, 
to  a  table  reserved  for  him.  He  loved  the  ripple 
of  interest  he  always  carried  in  his  wake,  and 
to-night  he  was  enjoying  the  whispered  comments 
that  followed  the  general  recognition  of  Felicity. 
They  were  wondering  how  in  the  deuce  he  ever 
came  to  be  Miss  Fergus's  escort,  and  to  this  place, 
he  reflected,  amusedly,  and  told  Felicity  about  it 
when  they  had  settled  themselves  at  their  table. 

"I  wonder  what  these  people  think  of  me?" 
she  asked.  "  They  think  I'm  queer — don't  they? 
Or  uppish?  The  Old  Man  could  have  come  in 
here  and  had  every  human  being  in  the  place  beam 

208 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

benignly  on  him.     I  wonder  why  I  never  learn 
any  of  his  ways?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Vincent,  kindly,  "  it's  pretty  hard 
for  a  woman,  a  young  and  beautiful  woman,  to 
be  hail-fellow-well-met  without  being — well,  too 
easy,  don't  you  know." 

"  It  seems,"  she  observed,  thoughtfully,  "  that 
democracy  for  women  is  a  failure,  and  never 
more  so  than  for  women  on  the  stage.  We  have 
to  hold  ourselves  so  stiff  it's  small  wonder  if  people 
think  we're  full  of  self-esteem  and  silly  snobbery." 

"  I  guess  that's  so,"  assented  Vincent,  who  had 
never  thought  of  this  thing  in  just  this  way  before. 
But  experience,  if  not  nature,  had  made  Vincent 
keen;  what  he  lacked  in  natural  depth  was  made 
up  for — quite  amply  in  some  instances — by  the 
breadth  of  his  first-hand  knowledge  of  life.  He 
knew  Felicity  was  supersensitive  on  this  subject 
of  her  isolation;  he  knew  that  she  could  not  talk 
about  it  to  many  persons,  and  that  her  talking 
about  it  to  him  was  due  not  so  much  to  her  belief 
that  he  would  understand,  as  to  the  sheer  necessity 
of  unbosoming  herself  to  some  one  and  her  hope 
that  at  least  he  would  not,  as  so  many  others  would, 
misunderstand. 

"  It  is  hard  for  you,  you  poor  child,  isn't  it?  " 
he  broke  out  with  sudden  sympathy  as  the  situation 
dawned  on  him.  And  Felicity,  undone  by  the 
commiseration  in  his  tone,  felt  her  eyes  fill. 

209 


Felicity 


Vincent  did  not  miss  that  tell-tale  shining,  and 
in  the  appeal  it  made  to  his  protective  instinct,  he 
forgot,  as  it  were,  the  quite  dizzy  eminence  of  the 
woman  before  him  and  talked  to  her  as  if  she 
were  again  a  little  ingenue  of  The  Old  Man's 
company. 

"  Every  now  and  then,"  he  said,  laughing,  but 
deeply  serious  under  his  banter,  "  some  one  gets 
up  a  lot  of  talk  about  ameliorating  the  lot  of  the 
chorus  girls,  but  no  one  ever  thinks  of  a  society  for 
making  life  brighter  for  celebrated  comediennes. 
It's  a  shame,  isn't  it?  No,  really!  I  mean  it! 
People  don't  think  how  difficult  things  are  for  you, 
and  they  are  difficult,  I  can  see.  But  you  oughtn't 
to  keep  comparing  yourself  with  The  Old  Man 
and  feeling  bad  because  you  can't  do  as  he  did. 
'Tisn't  fair  to  yourself;  he  wasn't  hampered  as 
you  are." 

"  I  know,"  she  answered,  gratefully,  "  but  it 
isn't  that  alone ;  he  had  something  about  him  that 
was  so — well,  so  full  of  sweet  humanness  that  no 
one  could  ever  misjudge  him.  I  don't  see  any 
reason  to  hope  I'll  ever  have  that  about  me,  and 
yet — I  try  to  be  like  him  !  No !  don't  comfort  me 
with  sweet  nothings;  I  know  you  mean  well,  but 
that's  not  what  I  want.  I  don't  want  any  one  to 
tell  me  my  way's  as  good  as  his,  because  I  know  it 
isn't.  But  I  wish  I  knew  if  my  way  is  as  good 
as  it  can  be,  *  considering  ' !  He'd  know !  And 

210 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

he'd  tell  me,  too.  But  you  can't  know — and  you 
couldn't  tell;  you're  too  young,  and  too  gallant. 
Ah,  that's  just  it!  "  she  went  on,  finding  comfort 
for  herself; •"  we  haven't  lived  long  enough  to  be 
wise,  and  people  know  it.  When  I  meet  a  cripple 
on  the  street,  for  instance,  I  turn  away  lest  he  see 
the  pity  in  my  eyes — they  must  get  so  tired  of  pity ! 
— but  when  The  Old  Man  met  one,  he  had  a  way 
of  smiling  into  his  face  with  a  look  of  '  Well,  pard- 
ner,  I  see  you're  up  against  it,  same's  we  all  are, 
each  in  our  different  way,'  and  he  always  got  a 
brave  smile  back.  /  can't  do  that!  I  suppose 
because  I'm  young  and  people  think  I  must  be 
hard  because  I  happen  to  be  successful.  Age 
hasn't  many  compensations  for  an  actress,  but  I 
hope  that'll  be  one  of  mine." 

"  Yes,"  said  Vincent,  absently.  Something  at 
a  neighboring  table  had  withdrawn  his  attention, 
and  Felicity  smiled  indulgently  to  see  how  soon 
his  brief  mood  for  analysis  faded.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  the  child  about  Vincent,  in  spite  of 
his  thirty-eight  years,  but  Felicity  liked  him  none 
the  less  for  having  to  humor  him. 

They  did  not  resume  their  serious  conversation, 
but  gave  themselves  over  to  watching  the  people 
around  them,  about  many  of  whom  Vincent  knew 
interesting  things,  and  nearly  all  of  whom  offered 
opportunity  for  interesting  conjecture. 

"  There's  little  Clo  Det  over  there,"  said  Vin- 

211 


Felicity 

cent,  indicating  with  a  nod,  "  Clorinda  Detmar, 
you  remember.  She  was  ingenue  in  our  company 
the  season  after  you  left,  and  married  Jack  Ashley, 
the  very  last  fellow  on  earth  Clo  ought  to  have 
married.  She  was  a  jolly  little  soul,  frisky  as  a 
kitten,  and  meaning  no  more  harm.  I  used  to 
be  mighty  sorry  for  her  on  the  road;  she'd  get 
so  homesick  she  could  hardly  stand  it,  and — well, 
you  know  how  those  things  go !  Ashley  was  there, 
and  he'd  shown  her  a  few  little  attentions,  and  they 
won  her,  poor  child.  He  was  horribly  jealous  of 
her,  and  they  had  the  devil's  own  time.  When 
she  couldn't  stand  it  any  more,  she  left  him — and 
has  been  having  the  devil's  own  time  ever  since, 
from  all  I  hear.  It's  a  shame,  for  there  wasn't  a 
mean  streak  in  her — only,  things  got  too  much 
for  her." 

There  was  genuine  feeling  in  Vincent's  voice, 
and  Felicity  liked  him  better  for  it  than  for  any- 
thing else  she  had  ever  known  about  him.  She  was 
absolutely  without  censoriousness  herself  and  was 
strongly  appealed  to  by  any  evidence  of  like  teii- 
derness  in  others.  She  knew  the  hard,  hard  life 
of  the  stage  so  well,  she  was  always  full  of 
pity  for  those  who  succumbed  to  its  tempta- 
tions. She  could  not  often  go  to  the  theatre, 
but  when  she  did,  it  was  more  likely  to  be  the 
players  that  absorbed  her  than  the  play.  At  a 
comic  opera,  when  the  stage  was  full  of  smiling, 

212 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

dancing  girls  in  gay  costumes,  she  would  sit  and 
watch  the  scene  through  tears.  "  There  are  so 
many  tragedies  behind  those  smiles,"  she  would 
say,  "  perhaps  they're  sordid,  mean,  but  God 
knows  how  easy  it  was  to  get  into  them,  and  how 
hard  it  is  to  get  out." 

'  You  know,"  said  Vincent,  still  looking  at  Clo 
Detmar,  "  how  you'd  feel  if  you  knew  some  one 
was  driving  that  little  Prentiss  girl  to  the  devil." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Felicity,  little  dreaming 
how  this  remark  would  recur  to  her  in  connection 
with  the  great  tragedy  of  her  life,  years  afterwards. 
She  told  him  about  her  experience  with  Arline 
on  Thursday,  and  laughed  at  herself  for  her 
absurdity.  Speaking  of  her  leisure  made  Vincent 
think  to  ask  her  what  she  was  going  to  do  for  the 
summer. 

She  did  not  know,  she  said;  and  told  him  some- 
thing of  her  dilemma.  Vincent  was  wise  enough 
to  appreciate,  and  to  marvel  at,  the  entire  lack  of 
coquetry  wherewith  Felicity  described  her  alone- 
ness  ;  he  thought,  not  without  reason,  that  Felicity 
still  liked  him  pretty  well;  he  thought  that  per- 
haps, if  he  asked  her  to  marry  him  she  might  at 
least  consider  it  seriously.  And  yet,  he  reflected, 
she  talked  to  him  in  this  way  which  other  women 
would  almost  certainly  have  made  suggestive,  with 
a  simple  directness  of  which  he  should  never  dream 
of  taking  advantage.  Even  if  he  had  been  burn- 

213 


Felicity 

ing  with  ardor  to  marry  Felicity,  he  would  not 
have  dared  to  broach  the  subject  then;  such  a  blun- 
der would  have  cost  him  all  his  chances  of  success, 
and  would  have  hurt  her  irreparably.  There  was 
something  about  her  very  frankness  that  gave  her 
protection — something  that  kept  a  fellow  con- 
stantly in  mind  of  "  the  decent  thing  to  do." 

He  suggested  one  or  two  people  she  might  take 
abroad  with  her  for  company,  but  she  shook  her 
head;  none  of  them  appealed  to  her  as  steady  com- 
pany for  eight  weeks. 

"  What's  become  of  The  Old  Man's  daughter 
you  used  to  be  so  fond  of?"  he  asked,  at  his 
wits'  end. 

"  She's  in  Millville;  we  buried  Aunt  Elie  from 
her  house,  you  know." 

"  That's  so ;  I  remember.  Well,  why  don't  you 
see  if  she  wouldn't  like  to  go  to  the  Paris  Exposi- 
tion or  to  the  seashore." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  would!  I'd  rather  have  her 
than  anybody." 

"  '  Present  company  excepted,'  please !  " 

Felicity  flushed.  That  was  too  near  the  truth 
to  joke  about,  but  Vincent's  manner  was  so  gayly 
impersonal  she  could  not  resent  it. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  become  available  as  a 
chaperon,"  she  said. 

"  Seems  as  if  I  ought  to  be,  doesn't  it?  "  he  re- 
turned, smiling  whimsically,  "  but  I  don't  believe 

214 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

any  one  has  ever  seriously  considered  me  for  the 
role." 

"  No,"  she  granted  him,  laughingly,  "  I  don't 
believe  any  one  ever  has." 

;'  Where  are  you  going  to  spend  your  sum- 
mer? "  she  asked,  after  they  had  reached  the  street 
and  were  facing  homeward. 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure;  haven't  thought  much 
about  it.  Been  enjoying  my  enforced  vacation  so 
much  I  haven't  looked  ahead,  to  speak  of." 

"  Have  you  made  your  plans  for  next  year?  " 

"  'Nary  plan." 

Felicity  was  silent  for  some  minutes  as  they 
strolled  up  Broadway.  Then,  as  they  turned  into 
her  cross-street  to  go  through  to  Fifth  Avenue 
she  said,  quite  abruptly,  "  Seaforth  hasn't  been  re- 
engaged for  my  company;  would  you  care  for  his 
place?"  Arthur  Seaforth  had  been  her  leading 
man  for  two  years. 

Vincent  was  thoroughly  surprised ;  he  had  never 
expected  such  an  offer,  and  least  of  all  that  she 
would  make  it.  But  again  there  was  that  about  her 
which  forbade  one's  presuming  on  her  frankness. 

'  Why,  sure  I  would,"  he  answered,  heartily. 
Then,  conscious  of  an  impulse  to  make  her  feel 
that  he  understood  the  offer  to  have  been  made  in 
a  fine  comradeship,  he  added,  "  It'd  be  like  old 
times,  wouldn't  it?  " 

"  As  near  as  we  can  ever  get  old  times  back, 
215 


Felicity 


I  suppose.  I  don't  know  what  Garvish  may  have 
in  mind — I  haven't  mentioned  the  matter  to  him 
for  several  days — but  I  daresay  he'd  as  lief  please 
me  as  not,  if  there's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't. 
Here!  let's  sit  down  a  minute  and  talk  about  it." 

She  indicated  the  tall,  brown-stone  stoop  of  a 
house  already  boarded  up  for  the  summer.  "  I 
can't  ask  you  to  my  sitting-room  at  this  hour  of  the 
night,"  she  explained,  in  amusement,  "  and  we 
can't  stand  on  the  corner,  like  folks  whom  nobody 
observes.  Isn't  it  ridiculous?  Next  year  I'm 
going  to  have  a  house  in  New  York,  if  I'm  only 
in  it  a  month.  At  present,  let's  occupy  these  lower 
steps  for  a  few  minutes,  and  enjoy  the  gorgeous 
night,  while  we  talk  things  over." 

The  street  was  very  quiet  and  none  too  well 
lighted,  so  that  they  were  in  small  danger  of 
recognition  by  any  of  the  few  people  who  passed. 
The  night  was  unusually  warm,  with  a  soft,  warm 
breeze  blowing  from  the  south  and  bringing  with 
it  a  caressing  touch  of  the  sea.  High  overhead 
the  nearly  full  moon  rode,  magnificent,  above  the 
jagged  line  of  roofs  and  chimneys;  and  although 
cable  cars  clanged  at  the  Broadway  corner  of  the 
long  block,  a  really  quite  restful  hush  pervaded 
the  canon-like  street  of  tall,  dark  houses  so  curi- 
ously alike. 

"Isn't  this  a  great  adventure!"  said  Felicity, 
thoroughly  enjoying  both  the  mockery  and  the 

216 


Starring  is  Lonesome  Business 

unusualness  of  it.  And  then  they  fell  to  discussing 
her  professional  plans  for  next  season,  and  how 
Vincent  might  fit  into  them,  quite  as  if  neither  of 
them  had  an  idea  of  the  other  save  as  a  thespian. 
It  was  an  hour  later  when  Vincent  helped  her 
to  her  feet  and  they  resumed  their  stroll  to  the 
hotel.  No  fewer  than  a  score  of  cards  on  her  sit- 
ting-room table  told  Felicity  of  callers  she  had 
missed,  but  as  she  looked  them  over,  half-inter- 
estedly,  she  did  not  note  one  she  regretted.  She 
was  curiously  well  pleased  with  her  evening. 


217 


CHAPTER    XV 

"  PEOPLE   ALWAYS    TALK  " 

DATING  from  that  night  at  the  actors'  res- 
taurant, it  seemed  as  if  all  things  conspired 
to  work  Felicity's  way  and  to  promise  her  a  pleas- 
ant summer. 

Frances  Allston  could,  and  would,  accept  her 
invitation  to  spend  a  summer  by  the  sea,  some- 
where where  Mr.  Allston  and  Adams  could  get 
to  them  for  Sundays,  and  straightway  Mr.  Leffler 
was  charged  with  finding  a  suitable  place  for  occu- 
pancy by  June  first.  It  must  be  convenient  for  the 
Allstons,  and  quiet  enough  so  that  Felicity  would 
not  be  stared  at  by  curious  hordes,  and  there  were 
a  lot  of  other  stipulations.  But  the  capable  Mr. 
Leffler  managed  to  keep  within  them  all — per- 
haps because  he  did  not  have  to  keep  within  any 
particular  price  short  of  the  fabulous — and  Felic- 
ity's address  for  the  summer  became  Fair  View, 
West  Harbor  Point,  Massachusetts. 

As  she  had  surmised,  Garvish  had  no  objection 
to  pleasing  her  when  there  was  no  reason  why 
he  should  not;  and  while  he  might  not  himself  have 
picked  Vincent  for  the  place,  he  was  by  no  means 

218 


"People  Always  Talk" 

unwilling,  if  the  star  wanted  him,  to  engage  Vin- 
cent for  leading  man  of  the  Fergus  company,  for 
a  season  of  forty  weeks,  opening  in  Philadelphia. 

After  that  was  decided,  it  seemed  the  inevita- 
ble thing  that  Vincent  should  be  with  her  a  goodly 
part  of  each  beautiful  May  day,  talking  over  the 
plays  and  how  to  play  them,  as  they  drove  or  idled 
in  the  Park  or  lunched  at  some  favorite  place. 
No  other  leading  man  had  ever  done  as  much — 
but  Felicity  did  not  remember  that.  Vincent  was 
nothing  if  not  a  beau  cavalier,  and  no  woman  ever 
trailed  in  her  wake  a  more  attentive  knight  than 
he  was — to  whatever  woman  he  was  with.  His 
courtesy  lacked  nothing  but  discrimination;  know- 
ing it  was  the  same  for  every  woman,  no  woman 
could  feel  as  flattered  by  it  as  she  might  wish. 

But  Felicity  was  not  quarrelling  with  Vincent 
for  what  he  was  not.  She  had  established  a  happy 
companionship  with  him  that  robbed  her  days  of 
their  worst  lonesomeness  and  filled  her  nights  with 
pleasant  anticipations  of  the  morrow,  and  she  was 
too  content  with  the  mere  sense  of  human  fellow- 
ship to  be  exacting.  She  stayed  in  New  York 
for  a  week  after  her  season  closed,  attending  to 
business  when  must  be,  idling  with  Vincent  when 
possible.  They  went  to  the  theatre  together  on 
several  nights,  and  attracted  nearly  as  much  atten- 
tion as  the  players  on  the  stage.  Felicity's  beauty, 
in  her  black  dress,  was  almost  startling,  and  people 

219 


Felicity 


watched  her  fascinatedly,  looking  for  the  famous 
smile  which  was  not  infrequent  in  Vincent's  hearty 
company.  She  had  lost  her  morbid  consciousness 
of  a  month  ago,  and  unwittingly  was  testifying  to 
the  virtue  of  Vincent's  cheerful  philosophy,  and  so 
engrossed  in  her  pursuit  of  pleasure  as  not  to  think 
what  people  might  be  saying  or  thinking  about 
her. 

When  she  left  New  York,  the  first  of  June,  it 
was  with  the  understanding  that  Vincent  was  to 
run  down  to  West  Harbor  Point  some  time  before 
long,  and  "  see  how  she  was  fixed  for  the  summer." 

He  put  her  aboard  her  train  on  the  Monday 
morning  of  her  departure  and  stocked  her  drawing- 
room  with  new  magazines,  candy,  and  flowers. 
Vincent  always  had  money  to  spend;  no  matter 
how  much  he  threw  away,  there  always  seemed 
to  be  more  to  throw  after  it.  No  one  quite  knew 
where  he  got  it — least  of  all  Vincent  himself,  per- 
haps— but  not  many  attempted  to  figure  out  Vin- 
cent's finances.  It  was  his  fortune  in  life  that 
every  one  was  amiably  disposed  to  take  him  as  he 
was  and  indisposed  to  inquire  into  what  he  was  not. 

There  was  no  one  but  themselves  in  the  little 
drawing-room,  those  few  minutes  before  the  train 
pulled  out ;  Celeste  was  sedately  ensconced  without, 
and  the  indefatigable  Mr.  Leffler  was  at  Fair 
View,  seeing  to  the  last  touches  of  preparation. 
Vincent  had  undertaken  to  see  Felicity  off,  and  to 

220 


"People  Always  Talk" 

do  for  her  all  the  things  Mr.  Leffler  would  have 
done  had  he  been  with  her  as  usual. 

"  Sure  you  have  everything?  "  he  said,  now, 
towering  splendidly  above  her  in  charming  solici- 
tude. "  Let  me  see:  your  baggage's  checked;  I've 
given  your  tickets  to  the  conductor;  I've  wired 
Leffler  you're  getting  off  all  right;  I've  a  memo, 
of  what  you  want  me  to  tell  Garvish.  Was  there 
anything  else?  " 

"  Nothing  I  can  think  of,  thank  you.  You're 
a  dear,  to  look  after  me  so  beautifully." 

'  You're  a  dear,  to  let  me,"  returned  Vincent, 
gallantly. 

Outside,  on  the  long  platform,  the  conductor 
waved  his  signal  to  the  engineer;  the  wheels 
beneath  them  began  to  turn. 

"  Oh,  you  must  go !  "  she  cried,  nervously.  She 
turned  away  her  face  as  she  spoke,  but  Vincent 
saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  and  her  lip  was 
quivering. 

"  I'm  going,"  he  said,  bending  over  her,  "  but 
I'm  coming,  pretty  soon."  And  so  whispering, 
he  laid  an  arm  about  her  shoulders  and,  drawing 
her  to  him,  kissed  her  cheek,  and  in  a  twinkling 
he  was  gone;  and  Felicity,  looking  out,  mistily, 
saw  him  waving  to  her  from  the  platform. 

Vincent  was  thoughtful,  as  he  left  the  train- 
shed  and  passed  through  the  crowded  waiting-room 

221 


Felicity 

where  more  than  one  recognizing  glance  followed 
him,  unheeded,  and  more  than  one  worshipper 
whispered  "  Delano!  "  excitedly  as  he  passed. 
Characteristically  indisposed  to  effort,  Vincent 
always  drifted  with  the  current  of  events;  but  the 
current  had  been  pretty  swift  of  late,  and  he  won- 
dered if  he  oughtn't  to  "  beach  his  craft,"  for  a  bit, 
and  think  over  the  direction  he  was  taking.  What 
that  direction  was,  he  thought  he  knew;  but  that 
he  was  satisfied  with  it  he  was  not  at  all  sure.  Even 
the  most  easy-going  of  men  has  learned,  by  the  time 
he  is  verging  on  forty,  that  it  is  easier  to  stop  short 
of  some  situations  than  to  get  out  of  them,  and 
Vincent  knew  that  when  he  next  saw  Felicity  he 
would  have  either  to  live  up  to  that  kiss  of  a 
moment  ago,  or  to  ignore  it  in  a  way  which  would 
unmistakably  mean  retraction.  Felicity  was  not 
a  woman  one  kissed  just  because  she  was  kissable. 
Vincent  felt  committed,  and  the  feeling  chafed 
him.  He  wondered  how  he  had  been  "  such  an 
ass  "  as  to  do  a  thing  like  that  without  counting 
the  cost.  How  could  he  go  on  with  his  next  sea- 
son's work  and  ignore  that  parting  which  was  so 
full  of  promise?  And,  on  the  other  hand,  how 
could  he  live  up  to  it?  Vincent  could  not  help 
feeling  a  comfortable  complacency  when  he  re- 
flected that,  rich  and  charming  and  successful  and 
evidently  fond  of  him  as  Felicity  was,  he  hesitated 
about  asking  her  to  marry  him  until  he  was  sure 

222 


"People  Always  Talk" 

just  how  he  felt  about  her.  There  seemed  to  him 
to  be  something  "  terribly  decent "  about  his  hesi- 
tation, something  of  which  not  every  fellow  he 
knew  would  have  been  capable,  and  he  could  not 
help  liking  himself  better  than  ever  because  of  it. 
That  there  might  have  been  anything  disingenuous 
in  his  actions  during  the  last  six  weeks,  never 
occurred  to  him.  It  was  the  little  matter  of  the 
kiss  that  bothered  Vincent,  that,  as  he  expressed 
it  to  himself,  "  put  things  in  a  devil  of  a  mess." 

But  presently  he  came  out  upon  Forty-second 
Street  with  its  familiar  bustle  and  roar,  and  as  he 
swung  along  with  his  graceful,  long-limbed  stride, 
his  natural  buoyancy  reasserted  itself.  The  June 
sky  was  bright,  the  sun  was  not  too  warm,  the 
women  were  out  in  their  nattiest  light  toggery:  it 
was  Vincent's  version  of  Pippa's  song,  his  equiva- 
lent for  "  the  lark's  on  the  wing  and  the  hillside's 
dew-pearled,"  and  as  the  exercise  of  brisk  walking 
sent  the  blood  pulsing  more  swiftly  through  his 
veins,  he  took  on  again  that  normal  mood  of  his  in 
which,  had  he  known  of  Pippa,  he  might  have 
echoed  "  all's  right  with  the  world." 

At  the  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue,  close  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Elevated,  he  met  a  theatrical 
acquaintance. 

"  Hear  you've  signed  with  Garvish  for  the  Fer- 
gus company,"  said  this  man,  after  greetings  had 
been  exchanged.  "  Pretty  good  berth,  I  guess?" 

223 


Felicity 


Yes,  Vincent  thought  he  would  like  it.  Then 
the  acquaintance,  eying  him  narrowly,  ventured  a 
bit  further. 

"  Rather  strong  in  that  quarter,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Vincent,  nonchalantly,  "  we've 
known  each  other  for  a  dozen  years  or  more.  I 
did  Miss  Fergus  a  trifling  service  the  night 
she  got  her  first  chance,  and  she's  never  forgot- 
ten it." 

"  Lucky  dog !  All  the  people  I've  ever  done 
anything  for  are  gone  broke.  Well,  be  good  to 
yourself  1  " 

There  was  something  in  the  inflection  of  that 
parting  speech,  something  in  the  look  that  accom- 
panied it,  that  made  Vincent  hot  with  resentment. 
For  an  instant  he  struggled  with  the  desire  to  call 
the  fellow  back  and  hit  him.  But  you  can  hardly 
hit  a  man  for  the  expression  in  his  eye,  or  because 
you  do  not  like  his  tone  of  voice ;  and  anyway,  the 
offender  was  a  little  wasp  of  a  chap  whom  Vincent 
would  have  scorned  to  strike,  though  he  had  been 
known,  once,  to  spank  a  fellow  of  like  size — just 
regularly,  under  severe  provocation,  to  turn  him 
dexterously  over  and  paddle  him.  That  would 
hardly  do  on  Sixth  Avenue,  however,  and  besides, 
to  resent  the  taunt  was  to  make  tacit  admission 
that  it  hurt. 

So  Vincent  swung  along  on  his  way,  but  his 
bright  mood  was  gone  again — momentarily.  Peo- 

224 


"People  Always  Talk" 

pie  were  talking  about  him  and  Felicity,  were 
they?  They  were  saying,  doubtless,  that  he  was 
making  the  most  of  her  friendship  for  him  to 
further  his  own  interests.  It  was  not  often  that 
Vincent  found  himself  caring  what  people  said; 
but  just  now  he  was  too  perturbed  to  be  philo- 
sophical. He  would  show  people !  Thought  he 
was  a  fortune-hunter,  did  they?  Well,  they  should 
see !  "  I  may  be  a  matinee  idol,"  said  Vin- 
cent, savagely,  as  if  admitting  a  deep  disgrace, 
"  but  I've  got  some  decency  about  me,  and  I'm 
not  the  kind  of  man  that  hangs  on  to  a  woman's 
skirts  for  a  living.  I'm  not  on  my  uppers,  yet,  I 
guess,  and  if  I"  were,  it  wouldn't  be  from  a  woman 
I'd  go  hunting  a  boost.  No,  sir!  I — why,  hello, 
Clo!" 

As  he  turned  the  corner  of  Broadway  to  go 
south  he  ran  into  Clo  Detmar.  She  was  looking 
more  than  a  trifle  seedy,  this  morning,  and,  con- 
scious as  she  was  of  her  shabbiness,  the  cordiality 
of  Vincent's  greeting  halted  her,  when  otherwise 
she  would  have  gone  quickly  by.  The  evident 
willingness  of  Delano,  the  popular  idol,  to  stand 
talking  with  her  in  her  conspicuous  lack  of  sum- 
mery attire,  on  that  prominent  corner,  with  half 
their  world  parading  by  on  its  morning  outing, 
delighted  her,  and  she  responded  eagerly  to  his 
good-natured  questions — so  eagerly  that  Vincent 
felt  his  old,  pleasureable  conceit  of  himself  return- 

225 


Felicity 


ing,  and  in  a  delicious  suffusion  of  kindliness  asked 
Clorinda  to  lunch. 

"  I'm  not  dressed  up,"  she  faltered. 

"Oh,  pshaw!  What  d'you  care?  Everybody 
knows  you've  got  better  clothes,  and  that's  all  that 
matters." 

Clorinda  wished  she  knew  if  he  really  thought 
so,  or  if  he  were  lying  gallantly  to  comfort  her. 
It  would  be  nice  to  think  that  some  one  who  knew 
her  in  the  old  days  still  believed  her  prosperous; 
it  never  occurred  to  Clo  that  there  could  be  any  one 
who  would  still  believe  her  good.  But  Vincent's 
manner  was  non-committal — charmingly  free  of 
benevolent  condescension,  and  as  charmingly  free 
of  that  something  which  bespeaks  the  lack  of 
respect. 

So  to  lunch  they  went,  to  a  place  chosen  by  Vin- 
cent with  rare  tact — a  place  not  so  fine  that  Clo 
would  feel  uncomfortably  shabby  by  contrast,  but 
fine  enough  so  that  she  could  have  no  suspicion  he 
was  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  her  among  his  more 
prosperous  acquaintances.  Her  appreciation  of 
his  choice  was  so  evident  that  Vincent,  enjoying 
to  the  full  his  own  kindliness,  nearly  forgot  his 
previous  irritation. 

"  Saw  you  the  other  night,"  he  said,  looking  up 
from  his  attentive  study  of  the  bill  of  fare. 

*  Yes.  My,  but  I  was  surprised  to  see  you  come 
walking  in  with  Felicity  Fergus !  " 

226 


"People  Always  Talk" 

"  I  was  kind  o'  surprised  to  see  myself,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "  She'd  never  been  there  before ;  I  thought 
it'd  do  her  good,  so  I  took  her." 

"  I  suppose  once  was  enough  for  her?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — I  think  she  enjoyed  it. 
She  seemed  to." 

"  It's  a  mystery  to  me  how  she  went  through 
all  they  say  she  did  in  her  climbing  days  and  kept 
so  unearthly  good." 

"  She  isn't  unearthly  good!  That  is,  I  mean — 
she's  good,  but  it  doesn't  strike  you  as  unearthly, 
when  you  know  her.  She's  a  tremendously 
human  sort  o'  person,  when  you  get  into  her  con- 
fidence." 

"  None  o'  the  Anderson  chill  about  her?  " 

"  Now,  there  you're  mistaken  again !  "  Vincent 
interposed.  "  I  was  in  Miss  Anderson's  company 
for  two  seasons,  you  know,  and  though  I  can't  say 
I  ever  got  awfully  well  acquainted  with  her,  I 
did  get  to  know  she's  a  delightful  woman  and  not 
the  least  bit  cold,  as  her  critics  say.  She  has  a 
jolly  sense  of  humor,  though  it's  nothing  to  Miss 
Fergus's.  But  when  you  know  Miss  Fergus  well, 
what  you  mostly  think  about  her  is  that  she's  a 
kind  of  pathetic  person." 

Clo  looked  incredulous. 

"  Yes,"  said  Vincent,  "  pathetic;  that's  just  it — 
just  the  impression  she  gives  you." 

"  She  never  gave  it  to  me,"  retorted  Clo,  with 
227 


Felicity 

some  bitterness.  "  She  always  gave  me  the  impres- 
sion of  being  a  spoiled  child  of  fortune — of  having 
a  lot  more  than  one  woman's  fair  share  of  things 
that  every  woman  wants." 

"  Well,  you  see  you  never  knew  her.  You  can't 
tell  what  people  are  like  at  long  range." 

"  We  can't  all  get  at  close  range,  like  you,"  said 
Clo,  in  good-natured  banter. 

Vincent  flushed.  "  I  suppose  you've  heard 
gossip,  too,"  he  said,  resentfully.  And  then,  not 
stopping  to  think  how  strange  a  person  Clo  was 
to  pick  for  his  confidences,  nor  to  reflect  that  there 
probably  was  not  one  of  his  friends  in  good  and 
regular  standing  to  whom  he  would  not  have  felt 
it  an  indelicacy  to  mention  his  quandary  about 
Felicity,  he  began  to  plead  his  case  before  Clorinda 
Detmar,  who  listened  with  warm  sympathy. 

"  I  wouldn't  care  what  people  say,"  she  coun- 
selled; no  counsel  comes  easier  to  all  of  us — to 
give!  "  If  she's  a  good  friend  of  yours  and  wants 
you  in  her  company,  and  you  like  her  and  want 
to  be  there,  you'd  be  a  fool  not  to  go.  People 
may  talk,  but  will  they  get  you  as  good  a  place, 
if  you  give  this  one  up?  That's  the  way  I  look 
at  it." 

There  was  something  in  that,  Vincent  admitted, 
but  it  did  not  cover  the  whole  situation. 

"  I  can  get  plenty  of  good  places,"  he  said,  a 
little  loftily,  "  I've  always  been  able  to.  But  the 

228 


"People  Always  Talk" 

thing  is,  I  don't  want  people  talking  about — well, 
thinking  there's  more  between  us  than  friendship, 
when  there  isn't.  It  isn't  fair  to  her." 

Clo  laughed.  "  You  talk  like  a  schoolboy,"  she 
said.  "  People  always  talk.  If  you  live  in  a  nun- 
nery, they  say  it's  because  you  were  disappointed 
in  love,  and  ten-to-one  they  concoct  some  affair 
for  you  with  the  spiritual  adviser.  What  do  you 
care  what  people  think?  They're  bound  to  think 
something  about  you,  and  it's  bound  not  to  be  true. 
You  see,  they  think  Mary  Anderson's  cold,  and 
they  certainly  don't  know  Felicity  Fergus  is 
pathetic.  You  just  have  to  go  ahead  and  ignore 
'em.  I  guess  Miss  Fergus  is  used  to  being  talked 
about,  and  thought  about;  a  little  more  won't  hurt 
her.  But  if  you  think  she  might  care,  why  don't 
you  tell  her,  and  see  what  she  says?" 

Vincent  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  Clo, 
looking  up  suddenly,  caught  a  curious  expression 
on  his  face. 

"  I — I  wouldn't  quite  like  to  do  that,"  he  said, 
lamely;  "it — well,  it  would  hardly  be  the  thing 
to  do,  it  seems  to  me." 

She  was  about  to  question  why,  when  something 
drove  all  thought  of  Felicity  from  her  mind:  she 
saw  Jack  Ashley  coming  toward  them,  and  that  he 
had  been  drinking,  though  it  was  so  early  in  the 
day.  His  face  was  working  horribly  in  one  of  his 
jealous  furies  wherewith  he  still,  on  occasion,  pur- 

229 


Felicity 

sued  her,  though  their  paths  were  supposed  to  lie 
as  far  as  the  poles  asunder. 

Vincent's  back  being  toward  Ashley,  he  did  not 
see  him  until  Clo's  little  choking  cry  of  fright  made 
him  turn  in  the  direction  of  her  startled  gaze.  As 
he  turned,  Ashley  struck  him  full  in  the  face,  and 
without  an  instant's  hesitation,  Vincent  returned 
the  blow,  with  interest. 

"  Don't,  oh,  don't!  "  begged  Clo,  rising  to  her 
feet  and  tremblingly  raising  a  hand  in  intervention. 
But  they  paid  no  heed  to  her  and  clinched,  only  to 
be  separated  immediately  by  waiters  and  patrons. 

"  He,"  said  a  waiter,  indicating  Ashley,  "  come 
right  up  to  the  gentleman,  here,  an'  hit  'im  without 
sayin'  a  word.  I  seen  him." 

'  Yes,  damn  him,  that's  my  wife  with  him !  " 
cried  Ashley. 

Furious  as  he  was,  Vincent  could  only  forbear  to 
ask  what  crime  it  was  to  buy  a  lunch  for  Clo,  to 
whom  Ashley  had  not  given  as  much  in  five  years. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  say  in  his  own  defence 
that  would  not  be  unchivalrous  to  poor  Clo,  and 
the  realization  of  this  maddened  him  more  than 
the  smart  of  Jack  Ashley's  blows. 

The  proprietor  came  hurrying  to  the  battle- 
ground. "  I  can't  have  any  fighting  here,  gentle- 
men, or  any  scenes.  If  you  can't  settle  this  matter 
peaceably,  I'll  have  to  ask  you  all  to  leave." 

"The  devil  you  will!"  retorted  Vincent  his 
230 


"People  Always  Talk" 

choler  rising  past  control.  "  Can  you  look  at  that 
intoxicated  brute  and  expect  me  to  pacify  him  with 
sweet  words?  It's  your  business  to  put  him  out 
and  preserve  the  peace,  while  I  eat  the  meal  I've 
ordered  and  am  willing  to  pay  for." 

Ashley,  at  this,  lunged  heavily  and  struck  at  the 
proprietor — his  maudlin,  insensate  rage  shifting 
as  causelessly  to  the  man  who  interfered  as  it  had 
originally  fastened  itself  on  Vincent.  Immediately, 
the  proprietor  sent  for  the  police,  and  Vincent's 
little  party  ended  at  the  Thirtieth  Street  Police 
Station,  where  poor  Clo  begged  in  vain  to  have 
Ashley  released.  "  God  knows  what  he'll  do  to 
me  when  he  gets  out,"  she  wept.  "Oh,  there  ought 
to  be  some  kind  of  law  to  protect  me  and  my 
friends  from  such  persecution !  "  she  cried.  "  Just 
because  I  was  fool  enough,  when  I  was  nineteen, 
to  marry  that  beast,  I  oughtn't  to  have  to  spend 
all  my  life  in  fear  of  rows  like  this !  What  chance 
has  a  woman  in  my  case,  I'd  like  to  know." 

Vincent  said  what  he  could  to  soothe  her,  but 
the  whole  episode  had  nauseated  him  and  he  was 
inwardly  cursing  the  luck  that  had  led  him  into  it. 

"  And  the  papers !  "  said  Clo,  "  think  of  the 
papers !  It'll  get  in  'em,  of  course." 

It  would,  of  course.  Vincent  could  see  the  head- 
lines now :  "  Actor  Delano  in  Tenderloin  Station. 
Jealous  Husband  Uses  Fists  in  Cafe  Row."  Ugh ! 
It  was  hideous!  As  Clo  said,  there  ought  to  be 

231 


Felicity 

some  law  which  would  protect  an  innocent  person 
from  such  happenings  as  this. 

It  was  the  silly  season  in  Park  Row,  and  every 
paper  had  room  to  spare  for  the  story.  Vincent 
reckoned,  at  the  week's  end,  that  he  had  answered 
five  thousand  efforts  at  chaff  on  the  subject,  from 
as  many  jocular  acquaintances,  and  gnashed  his 
teeth  in  rage  at  his  impotence  in  the  whole  affair. 

What  he  did  not  know  about  it,  however,  was 
that  a  woman  in  West  Harbor  Point  read  of  that 
episode  with  burning  cheeks,  and,  not  clearly  con- 
scious why  she  did  so,  thrust  the  New  York  paper 
containing  it  into  the  fire  before  any  one  else  in  her 
household  had  a  chance  to  look  it  over. 


232 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE    SHINING    PATH    TO    THE    MOON 

JUNE  passed,  at  Fair  View,  without  bringing 
Vincent,  but  Felicity  did  not  miss  him — 
greatly.  She  was  very  happy  with  Frances 
Allston  and  their  common  memories;  very  happy 
with  the  sea  and  with  her  freedom  from  interrup- 
tion and  curious  interest,  and  with  her  house.  Fran- 
ces declared  she  had  never  seen  any  one  else  get 
such  ecstatic  satisfaction  out  of  bargaining  with 
"  the  travelling  meat  market,"  as  Felicity  called 
the  butcher  who  made  his  tri-weekly  rounds  with 
his  stock  in  a  canvas-covered  wagon;  never  had 
supposed  it  possible  for  a  hot  kitchen  to  be  such 
a  palace  of  delights  as  it  seemed  to  Felicity,  who 
had  an  insatiable  desire  to  whisk  eggs  and  sift 
flour  and  roll  pie  crust  and  cut  cookies  and  fry 
doughnuts,  and  do  a  world  of  other  things  which, 
to  her  starved  wanderer's  sense,  seemed  the  most 
enchanting,  inner  mysteries  of  that  haloed  thing, 
the  common  lot. 

"  If  you're  so  crazy  about  housekeeping,"  said 
Frances,  one  day,  "  why  don't  you  quit  the  stage 
and  marry  and  settle  down?  " 

233 


Felicity 

Felicity's  eyes  twinkled  with  humorous  appreci- 
ation. "  Why  don't  I?  "  she  echoed,  whimsically. 
"  Maybe  it's  because  I  suspect  that  these  fascinat- 
ing butcher-men  and  egg-beaters  might  not  con- 
tinue so  engrossing,  if  I  made  work  of  'em,  instead 
of  play.  Maybe — "  she  began,  as  if  another  prob- 
ability occurred  to  her,  but  the  expression  of  her 
face  changed  suddenly  and  Frances  knew  she  left 
something  unconfessed. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  house  in  the  fall,"  she 
went  on,  "  even  if  I  only  stay  in  it  a  few  weeks 
each  year.  I'm  going  to  have  a  place  where  I 
can  accumulate  things,  and  sit  down  and  gloat  over 
my  possessions.  I've  always  had  to  travel  light, 
to  live  in  a  trunk,  so  to  speak.  While  Aunt  Elie 
was  with  me  I  wouldn't  let  myself  think  of  a 
house,  because  she'd  have  made  such  a  responsi- 
bility of  it,  and  she  wasn't  able  to  do  it.  And  now 
I'm  so  sorry  I  didn't  have  one  anyway,  and  man- 
age somehow  about  the  responsibility.  I  wish  I 
had  a  house  where  Aunt  Elie  had  lived  and  died — 
but  I  can't  buy  that  now — can  I?  I  wish  I  had 
a  house  where  The  Old  Man  had  been,  and  left 
memories!  I'd  rather  have  the  littlest  house  on 
earth  where  he  had  been,  than  the  biggest,  all 
empty  of  him !  I  can't  buy  a  home,  you  see — only 
a  house.  If  I'd  only  bought  a  year  ago!  so  Aunt 
Elie  could  have  been  in  it — but  I  was  afraid  she'd 
take  it  too  hard " 

234 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

"  Somebody  always  has  to  make  a  responsibility 
of  housekeeping,"  said  Frances,  rather  soberly. 
"  It  takes  positive  generalship  to  run  a  house 
agreeably." 

Felicity  looked  dismayed.  "  I  shall  have  to  hire 
a  general,"  she  said,  dolefully,  "  as  well  as  a  com- 
panion. I  sha'n't  mind  the  general,  so  much,"  she 
went  on,  "  because  I  can  turn  her  loose  and  tell  her 
to  run  things  and  not  to  bother  me " 

Frances  smiled.  "  You  talk  about  housekeeping 
just  as  a  man  does,"  she  said,  "  as  if  you  could 
buy  a  flawless  housekeeper  as  you  buy  a  flawless 
diamond,  if  you  have  the  price." 

"  Well,"  returned  Felicity,  undaunted,  "  if  she 
isn't  flawless  I  sha'n't  mind,  much.  I  can  go  out 
to  eat,  or  have  in  a  caterer.  You  may  laugh  at 
me,  but  I  know  I  can  get  service — it's  one  of  the 
things  the  price  will  buy.  But  I  can't  get  com- 
panionship— not  for  money.  I've  got  to  have  a 
human  being  to  travel  with  me  next  year — some 
kind  of  a  fellow  woman  to  be  in  my  rooms,  to 
keep  me  from  getting  sick  with  loneliness.  I  need 
her  for  propriety,  really;  it's  not  quite  comfortable 
to  travel  with  only  a  maid.  And  I  need  her  for 
company.  Anybody'll  do  for  propriety,  but  where 
am  I  to  get  company — get  some  one  whose  strange- 
ness and  '  boughtenness  '  won't  drive  me  wild  ?  " 

Frances  shook  her  head  despairingly.  '  That's 
a  phase  of  your  business  I  know  little  about,"  she 

235 


Felicity 


said.  "  Father's  life  was  so  different — a  man's 
always  is,  of  course.  And  in  my  days  of  knowing 
theatre  people  well,  nearly  everybody  belonged  to 
stock  and  lived  like  other  folks.  The  stars  trav- 
elled, of  course,  but  I  never  got  well  acquainted 
with  any  of  the  women;  they  came  so  seldom  and 
stayed  so  short  a  time,  and  never  were  familiarly 
at  home  in  our  house  the  way  many  of  the  big 
men  were.  I  suppose  most  of  them  had  relatives 
with  them — a  mother  or  sister  or  somebody;  I 
remember  that  when  Rachel  was  here  everybody 
thought  she'd  have  been  so  much  happier  if  she'd 
only  had  a  chance  to  be  lonely !  Such  a  swarm  of 
family  as  that  poor  creature  had  to  trail  about!  " 

"  I  never  heard  of  any  of  them — the  women 
of  the  stage,  I  mean — who  was  as  alone  in  the 
world  as  I  am,"  said  Felicity.  "  Why,  nobody 
on  earth  belongs  to  me — that  I  know  of !  " 

Frances  thought  best  to  ignore  the  tragic  aspect 
of  this.  "  Well,"  she  observed,  smiling,  "  there 
are  plenty  who'd  like  to,  I  don't  doubt." 

Felicity  kept  her  own  counsel,  partly  from 
womanly  reticence,  partly  because  it  nettled  her  to 
remember,  of  all  the  thousands  who  had  raved 
over  her  art,  her  beauty,  her  charm,  of  all  the 
hundreds  who  had  called  her  adorable,  how  few 
had  laid  themselves  at  her  feet  and  how  with 
wounded  pride  rather  than  wounded  love  they  had 
taken  their  dismissal.  One  would  think,  Felicity 

236 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

in  candor  could  not  help  admitting,  that  beauty 
and  sweetness  and  brilliance  so  universally  extolled, 
would  have  inspired  great  love  in  some  one;  that 
from  somewhere  out  of  the  wide,  wide  world  that 
knew  her,  a  worshipper  might  have  come  who 
would  not  be  said  nay.  But,  no !  Probably  there 
were  a  thousand  men  who  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  had  her  if  they  knew  they  could,  but  there 
was  not  one,  evidently,  who  wanted  her  so  that  he 
meant  to  have  her  whether  or  not.  She  had  seen 
men  that  determined  about  women  with  no  tithe 
of  her  world-acknowledged  loveliness.  Why  was 
it?  Was  The  Old  Man  right,  as  he  nearly  always 
was,  when  he  said  that  no  one  was  ever  loved 
because  of  what  he  was,  but  in  spite  of  it?  She 
had  seen  women  ardently  worshipped  in  spite  of 
big  obstacles ;  had  seen  love  thrive  on  what  it  over- 
came. Was  it,  then,  one  of  the  cruelest  phases 
of  the  mockery  of  success  that  triumph  held  love 
at  bay? 

It  was  a  rainy  morning,  and  she  and  Frances 
after  a  beguiling  hour  in  the  kitchen  had  gone  into 
the  sitting-room,  where,  with  a  log  blazing  on  the 
hearth,  more  for  cheeriness  than  for  warmth 
(though  the  east  wind  was  chill) ,  they  were  sewing 
and  chatting  cosily  in  that  sweet,  confidential  way 
that  women  love.  Felicity  was  a  good  needle- 
woman, thanks  to  Amelia's  teaching,  and  found 
nothing  more  restful  than  the  plying  of  her  needle. 

237 


Felicity 

She  could  always  think  best  as  she  sewed,  she 
said,  and  there  was  no  time  she  talked  better,  if  she 
had  an  intimate  rocking  and  sewing  by  her  side. 
How  she  and  Amelia  had  sat  and  sewed,  in  all 
sorts  of  queer  nooks,  years  ago,  to  get  her  cos- 
tumes together!  And  how,  as  their  fingers  flew, 
their  tongues  had  kept  pace,  and  Felicity  had 
talked  herself  into  her  characters  even  while  she 
fashioned  their  habiliments.  Those  were,  not- 
withstanding many  hardships,  good  old  days. 
Now,  her  costumes  were  designed  and  made  by 
artists,  her  frocks  for  private  wear  came  from 
great  Paris  houses,  her  lingerie  was  the  product 
of  exquisite  skill  in  convents  where  meek  nuns  pur- 
veyed to  vanities  themselves  had  piously  for- 
sworn. There  was  no  need  at  all  for  her  to  sew, 
and  the  nice,  leisurely  habit  did  not  fit  in  with 
the  life  of  the  road  as  she  travelled  now — when 
luxury  and  fame  complicated  things  for  her  as 
privation  and  struggle  had  never  done.  Celeste 
sewed  now,  if  sewing  needs  be  done.  But  this 
was  vacation — beautiful,  "  different  "  vacation — 
and  Felicity,  besides  sewing  unneeded  things  for 
herself,  had  been  helping  Frances  make  tiny  gar- 
ments for  Sadie's  baby  that  was  to  be. 

She  was  sewing  on  one  of  these  now,  putting 
the  infinitesimal  bit  of  lace  about  the  bottom  of  a 
wee  sleeve,  and  wondering,  wistfully,  if  she  would 
ever  be  thus  employed  with  a  tenderer  interest, 

238 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

when  a  boy  arrived  from  the  Harbor  with  tele- 
grams— one  for  Frances,  two  for  Felicity. 

One  of  Felicity's  was  from  Mr.  Leffler,  about 
a  house  he  had  found  and  wanted  her  to  come  up 
and  look  at.  The  other  was  from  Vincent,  who 
said:  "  May  I  run  down  for  over  the  Fourth?  " 

The  boy  had  been  told  to  wait  for  answers. 
"Any  answer  to  yours?  "  said  Felicity  to  Frances. 
Then,  catching  sight  of  the  older  woman's  face  she 
marvelled  at  its  transfigurement ;  the  eyes  were  full 
of  tears,  but  joy  shone  unmistakable  in  every 
lineament. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Felicity,  "has  the  baby 
come?  " 

Frances  nodded;  she  could  not  speak.  Felicity, 
understanding,  went  over  and,  bending  above  her, 
gathered  the  gray  head  to  her  young  bosom. 
There  it  lay  for  a  moment,  then  Frances  raised 
it  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  know,  dear,"  she  whispered;  "but 
it's  wonderful — so  wonderful !  " 

"  I  do  know !  "  contended  Felicity,  refusing 
to  be  shut  out  of  this  tenderest  emotion  of  the 
woman  heart,  "  I  do  know — I  can  feel  every  thrill 
of  it,  just  as  if  I  held  my  own  little,  new  baby 
here  !  "  With  unconscious  dramatic  expression  she 
clasped  her  arms  against  her  breast  as  if  she  cud- 
dled a  baby  there. 

Then  the  waiting  boy  began  to  whistle  sugges- 

239 


Felicity 


tively  in  the  hall,  and  Felicity  flew  to  her  desk 
to  write  her  replies. 

"  I'm  sending  congratulations  to  Morton  and 
Sadie,"  she  said,  "  do  you  want  to  dictate  yours 
tome?" 

When  the  boy  was  despatched  and  they  were 
quiet  once  more,  there  seemed  nothing  to  talk 
about  but  the  marvel  of  the  new  life  out  in  Chi- 
cago, the  little  girl-baby  concerning  whom  her 
proud  father  had  wired:  "  Sarah  Frances,  weight 
nine  pounds,  sends  you  greeting.  Everything 
favorable.'* 

"  Sarah  Frances,"  murmured  the  grandmother, 
continuing  to  reread  the  wonderful  telegram,  "  is 
not  a  very  ornamental  name " 

"  All  the  better  for  the  wearer,  however  orna- 
mental she  may  turn  out  to  be,"  interposed  Felicity 
with  decision  in  her  tones,,  To  Frances's  question- 
ing look  she  answered,  laughing,  "  Oh,  I  wouldn't 
have  any  other  name,  any  more  than  I'd  have  any 
other  profession !  But  sometimes  I  think  perhaps 
I  should  have  missed  some  of  the  irony  of  my  life 
if  I'd  been  named  Sarah  Frances  instead  of  Felic- 
ity. People  seem  to  feel  that  my  being  named 
Felicity  is  all  a  part  of  my  blissful,  fabulously 
felicitous  existence.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  were 
named  Ann  Eliza — so  people  might  be  willing  to 
believe  I  work  for  what  I  get,  instead  of  believing 
I  pick  it  off  a  fairy  tree.  But  of  course  I  don't, 

240 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

really,"  she  admitted  in  the  same  breath,  as  if 
fearful  of  being  taken  by  the  unseen  powers  at 
her  word.  "  Oh,  what  a  lot  o'  different  people 
each  of  us  is  in  here !  "  she  cried,  comically,  striking 
her  breast  with  her  hand  in  a  conscious  theatrical- 
ism  very  unlike  her  gesture  of  a  few  moments 
before  when  she  had  spoken  in  such  passionate 
earnestness  about  understanding  mother-love. 

Two  days  later,  Vincent  came,  arriving  by  the 
evening  stage  after  "  knocking  around  Beantown 
for  a  few  hours,"  as  he  expressed  it.  If  he  had 
come  a  month  ago,  Vincent  might  have  felt  some 
constraint,  some  consciousness  on  account  of  that 
parting  moment  in  the  train-shed.  But  now  he 
had — very  nearly — forgotten  about  it;  at  least  he 
had  forgotten  it  sufficiently  to  carry  no  evident 
remembrance  of  it  in  his  manner  as  he  greeted  his 
hostess.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  forgotten,  too. 
But  no !  that  was  not  like  her.  Vincent  wondered. 

West  Harbor  Point  was  at  the  unfashionable 
end  of  Buzzard's  Bay,  and  no  railroad  came  nearer 
to  it  than  New  Bedford  or  Fall  River,  each  eigh- 
teen miles  away.  Visitors  had  to  take  stage  from 
either  of  those  points,  and  guests  for  Fair  View 
were  dropped  at  a  cross-roads  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  town  and  there  picked  up  by  Felicity,  driving 
her  surrey. 

"  Dashing  trap,  you've  got  here,"  laughed  Vin- 
cent, as  he  climbed  up  beside  her  on  the  front 

241 


Felicity- 


seat,  "  theatrical  to  the  limit,"  and  he  flicked  the 
fringe  that  hung  around  the  canopy. 

"  Hush !  "  she  whispered,  though  no  one  was 
within  shouting  distance,  "  that  fringe  is  part  of 
the  disguise.  Play-actors  are  not  esteemed  in  these 
parts  and  I'm  masquerading  as  a  human  being. 
That's  one  reason  why  I  came;  I  think  I'm  tired 
of  being  esteemed!  " 

Vincent  grinned  his  incredulity,  and  Felicity 
laughed,  as  she  always  did  when  any  one,  in  Vin- 
cent's phrase,  "  called  her  bluff." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  remonstrated, 
"  you  know  I  like  my  glory,  and  I  like  to  run  away 
from  it.  If  you  don't  know  it,  I'm  going  to  be  so 
disappointed  in  you !  For  most  people  don't 
understand  it,  and  so,  of  course,  they  can't  under- 
stand me,  and  I  hate  being  an  enigma;  it  isn't 
sociable." 

'  The  deuce  you  do!  "  thought  Vincent,  but  he 
didn't  say  how  far  he  was  from  understanding  her. 
It  was  enough  to  look  at  her,  today,  without  trying 
or  even  caring  to  understand,  he  decided,  as  they 
faced  toward  Fair  View,  the  brilliant  late  sunshine 
in  their  faces. 

Felicity  wore  a  dimity  dress  of  an  adorable 
shade  of  pale  pink,  and  a  garden  hat  to  match, 
tied  under  her  chin  with  pink  dimity  strings.  The 
sun  seemed  for  the  first  few  moments  of  their 
drive  to  strike  about  the  brim  of  her  hat  and, 

242 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

shining  through,  to  cast  a  truly  wonderful  rose 
glow  over  her  face.  She  looked  so  different  from 
the  woman  in  the  black  dress  he  had  dined  with 
that  wretched  February  night  in  Chicago,  that 
he  sat  staring  at  her  reflectively,  and  forgot  to 
talk. 

Felicity  felt  his  scrutiny.  "  You're  surprised  at 
my  pink  dress,"  she  said,  "  but  no  one  down  here 
knows  I'm  in  mourning,  except,  of  course,  the  All- 
stons,  and  so  I  don't  wear  it.  I've  always  hated  it, 
and  wear  it  only  as  a  concession — one  of  the  eternal 
concessions — to  the  people  who  don't  understand. 
Down  here,  where  everything  is  so  glorious  with 
color,  I  simply  can't  go  around  in  black;  it'd  drive 
me  wild  to  be  the  one  sombre  note  in  a  summer 
world.  So  I  live  in  blue,  like  the  sea  at  noon,  and 
in  pink,  like  the  last  of  the  afterglow,  and  in  white, 
like  the  moonlight  on  the  sand-dunes,  and  some- 
times I  almost  forget  about  the  musty  stage — 
until  I'm  honest  with  myself  and  own  that  'way 
down  deep  in  me  I'm  searching  every  thrill  I  get 
to  make  it  yield  me  something  for  my  art.  Why, 
I  can't  talk  to  an  ancient  mariner  down  at  the 
wharf,  without  finding  myself  thinking :  '  Ah,  ha ! 
what  did  I  tell  So-and-So  when  he  was  rehearsing 
that  skipper  part!  Didn't  I  tell  him  he  acted  as 
much  like  an  Iowa  country  storekeeper  as  like  a 
Yankee  salt  who  had  sailed  every  navigable  sea ! ' 

"  Three  lengths   ahead   and   running  like   the 

243 


Felicity 

wind,"  thought  Vincent,  enjoying  his  own  humor- 
ous appreciation  of  the  thing,  but  saying  nothing 
except,  "  I'm  with  you  on  the  mourning  question  ; 
it  can't  do  the  dead  any  good  and  it  keeps  the 
living  in  the  perpetual  '  willies.'  It's  bully  to  see 
you  looking  so  well !  " 

Still  not  a  trace  of  consciousness  of  that  kiss! 
Vincent,  who  had  nearly  forgotten  it  until  he  saw 
her  and  then  was  anxious  to  forget  entirely,  was 
piqued  by  the  very  ease  he  had  hoped  to  find.  In 
any  other  woman,  he  reflected,  he  would  not  have 
been  so  surprised;  but  in  Felicity 

They  had  two  miles  to  drive,  and  Felicity,  who 
kept  the  reins,  let  the  staid  old  horse  saunter 
through  the  leafy  lanes  where,  as  she  remarked 
with  delicious  unction,  "  '  the  last  lingering  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  were  filtering  through  the  trees  ' 
when,  not  l  a  solitary  horseman  was  seen  wending 
his  way  across  the  plain  the  forest  skirted,'  but, 
'  two  play  actors,  in  the  disguise  of  hurnm^  beings, 
were  seen  skulking  through  the  unfrequented  road- 
way that  approached  a  splendid  castle.  With  out- 
stretched arm,  one  pointed.  "  Look !  "  she  mur- 
mured, "  we  draw  near.  Hist !  " 

Her  appreciation  of  crude  melodrama  was  in- 
tense; in  books,  in  plays,  in  pictures,  it  always  fas- 
cinated her.  She  mimicked  it  inimitably,  but  she 
was  ever  questioning  it  for  the  secret  of  its  popu- 
larity. "  Somewhere  in  it,"  she  declared,  "  there's 

244 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

a  vital  principle  it  behooves  us  all  to  learn."  The 
Old  Man  had  taught  her  this,  sitting  with  her  in 
the  galleries  of  cheap  theatres,  when  opportunity 
allowed,  and  watching  their  neighboring  gods  as 
keenly  as  they  watched  the  play. 

Vincent  scorned  melodrama,  and  felt  sure,  from 
Felicity's  mimicry,  that  she  did,  too.  "  At  the 
portcullis,"  he  went  on,  as  they  drew  up  at  the  gate 
to  the  Fair  View  grounds,  "  one  of  the  disguised 
dismounted  and  in  ringing  tones  commanded  it  to 
open.  When  the  warder  hesitated,  our  hero  slew 
him  with  one  hand — the  left — while  with  the  other 
he  led  his  lady's  charger  through." 

"  Please  close  the  gate,"  cautioned  Felicity,  out 
of  character,  "  so  the  cow  won't  make  her  escape." 

"  On  what  charge,"  demanded  Vincent  with  the 
air  of  a  knight  errant,  "  is  the  lady  held  prisoner?  " 

'What  melancholy  wights  draw  nigh?" 
laughed  Frances  Allston,  coming  down  the  steps 
to  greet  them.  She  had  heard  their  laughter  as 
they  approached,  but  was  unprepared  for  the  burst 
of  glee  her  hail  incited. 

"  Oh,  good,  sweet  Heaven!  is  it  in  the  air?" 
murmured  Vincent.  "  What  place  is  this  that  of 
us  all  makes  mummers  as  we  come?  that  straight- 
way twists  the  common  tongue  to  actors'  speech?  " 

Felicity  threw  up  her  hands  in  a  despairing 
gesture.  "  I  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  if  you're  not  care- 
ful, you'll  get  us  all  surprised  by  night  and  whisked 

245 


Felicity 

away  to  Bedlam.  If  the  servants  overhear  this 
strange  babbling,  we'll  be  undone.  They're 
natives,  all,  and  natives  do  not  so;  and  as  they  do 
not  do  themselves,  they'll  brook  from  no  one  else ; 
what's  not  their  way  is  heresy.  For,  look  you, 
sirs,  they're  of  New  England !  " 

All  through  supper — to  which  meal  at  evening 
they  told  Vincent  he'd  have  to  get  accustomed,  as 
the  "  help  "  refused  to  get  accustomed  to  any 
other — they  were  childishly  merry,  with  furtive 
looks  behind  ere  launching  into  stagey  nonsense, 
each  trying  to  upset  the  others'  gravity  by  sudden 
changes  of  speech  and  countenance  when  the  wait- 
ress came  and  went.  Vincent  was  delightfully 
funny,  dropping  and  reassuming  "  the  disguise  of 
a  human  being,"  now  acting  wild  melodrama  in 
Phemie's  absence;  now,  on  her  return,  arresting 
a  brandished  fork  midway,  and  sedately  conveying 
it  to  his  mouth  with  an  air  of  all  his  mind  being 
intent  upon  his  manners. 

Afterward,  when  he  was  smoking  out  on  the 
porch  that  overlooked  the  sea,  they  plied  him  with 
questions  about  people  they  knew.  They  had  the 
New  York  and  Boston  papers  every  evening  by  the 
stage,  but  newspapers  are  poor  intelligencers,  at 
best,  and  there  were  a  thousand  things  they  wanted 
to  know  "  more  authoritatively,"  Felicity  said. 
For  instance,  was  it  generally  believed  Mary 
Anderson  would  not  return  to  the  stage?  Did  he 

246 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

know  anything  more  than  the  papers  printed  about 
the  sale,  to  satisfy  a  mortgage,  of  John  E.  Owens's 
famous  place  at  Aigburth  Vale?  "What  times 
that  place  has  seen !  "  both  women  mused.  Was 
it  true  that  Mrs.  Langtry  had  been  sued  by  her 
French  chef?  Had  he  seen  Dick  Mansfield  since 
he  returned  from  England,  a  few  days  ago,  and 
was  his  London  triumph  in  Richard  III  much 
talked  about  in  New  York?  June  had  seen  a 
perfect  epidemic  in  New  York  of  benefits  for  the 
Johnstown  sufferers;  Vincent  had  taken  part  in 
three,  they  read — "  Who,"  said  Felicity,  "  were 
the  '  also  rans  '  ?  " 

After  a  while,  Frances  remembered  she  had  let- 
ters to  write — time-honored  excuse  of  the  tactful ! 
— and  begged  to  be  excused  for  an  hour  or  so. 
Vincent  went  in  with  her,  to  open  the  door  for 
her,  and  to  fetch  a  light  shawl  for  Felicity. 

"  I'm  not  cold,"  she  protested,  when  he  wrapped 
it  round  her  with  the  charming  solicitude  habitual 
with  him. 

"  No,  but  it's  damp;  it's  bound  to  be.  And  I 
thought  maybe  you'd  come  for  a  stroll  along  the 
beach.  There's  Madame  Moon  peeking  up,  now, 
— waiting  for  her  cue  to  come  on." 

They  walked  along  the  shore  in  the  direction 
of  the  Harbor  for  a  half  mile  or  thereabouts,  then 
turned  and  retraced  their  steps  to  a  point  near 
home,  where  a  flat-bottomed  rowboat,  overturned 

247 


Felicity 


in  the  dry  sands  above  tide-mark,  invited  them,  and 
they  sat  down. 

So  far,  they  had  talked  of  everybody  but  them- 
selves, of  everything  but  their  separate  and  mutual 
concerns.  Now,  as  they  sat  and  looked  out  along 
the  silver  path  of  the  moonlight  on  the  dark  waters, 
they  fell  silent.  Felicity,  one  hand  cupping  her 
chin  and  cheek,  seemed  lost  on  the  trail  of  "  long, 
long  thoughts,"  and  Vincent,  watching  her,  won- 
dered what  they  were — found  himself  wishing  he 
knew  if  she  had  heard  of  the  cafe  row  over  Clo 
Detmar,  and  if  she  thought  any  less  of  him  for  it. 
But  he  was  afraid  to  ask. 

"  You're  having  a  fine,  restful  time,  aren't 
you?  "  he  said,  presently.  He  was  sifting  the  fine, 
dry  sand  through  and  through  his  fingers  as  he 
sat,  wrapped  in  languorous  content  with  this  sil- 
very, voluptuous  night,  this  wholly  pleasant  situ- 
ation. It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  watched  Felicity, 
and  remembered  the  scenes  of  stress  he  had  seen 
her  in  twice  this  year — now  only  in  its  zenith — that 
she  must  be  revelling  in  this  quiet.  For  himself, 
Vincent  was  never  rested  by  quiet,  but  by  change; 
but  he  knew  Felicity  to  be  different. 

1  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  this  is  the  restfullest 
time  I  can  remember,  since — well,  ever,  I  think! 
I  was  going  to  say  since  the  years  at  Briarwood, 
but  though  the  place,  there,  is  full  of  soft  laziness, 
those  were  anything  but  soft,  lazy  years  I  spent 

248 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

there.  I  never  saw  anything  in  my  life,"  she  went 
on,  musingly,  "  like  dear  Aunt  Elie's  ambition  for 
me.  It  was  unrelenting.  All  those  times  were 
times  of  toil.  .  .  .  But,  oh!  they  were  all  so 
interesting!  I  look  back  at  them  now  with  the 
keenest  regret.  .  .  .  There  was,  for  instance, 
our  old  Witch  of  Endor — a  derelict  old  woman, 
the  weirdest  creature,  who  drifted  out  of  the  vor- 
tex at  New  Orleans  and  came,  in  some  way,  to  be 
floating  from  river  town  to  river  town,  picking  up 
the  most  precarious  living  that  ever  was  on  land 
or  sea.  And  when  she  came  to  Briarwood,  we 
kept  her.  Such  a  looking  thing  as  she  was !  And 
we  never  could  improve  her.  She  looked  like 
the  mummy  of  a  Rameses,  done  up  in  innumerable 
swathings  of  prehistoric  stuffs.  She  could  take  one 
of  Aunt  Elie's  prim  gowns,  and  when  she  had  put 
it  on,  with  such  revisions  and  additions  as  her 
taste  dictated,  you  would  have  thought  she  was 
fresh  from  an  Egyptian  tomb — and  that  dissipa- 
tion had  reached  a  stage  of  high  art  among  the 
Egyptians!  But  such  gifts!  She  spoke  and  wrote 
seven  or  eight  languages,  fluently.  She  had  been 
everywhere  in  Christendom,  and  a  good  many 
places  that  were  not  Christian — to  say  the  least. 
She  had  encountered  everybody  that  ever  was 
heard  of  in  this  century,  it  seemed — political, 
social,  artistic,  she  knew  them  all!  And  how  she 
could  play  the  piano !  She  had  studied  with  Clara 

249 


Felicity 

Schumann,  and  had  been  much  in  Liszt's  house  in 
Vienna  in  the  days  of  the  Countess;  she  knew 
Wagner  in  his  years  of  bitterest  struggle,  and 
could  tell  all  about  his  anguish  in  putting  a  ballet 
in  Tannhauser  to  make  the  opera  '  go  '  in  Paris. 
She  had  known  George  Sand  and  De  Musset,  had 
lived  neighbor  to  the  Felixes  when  Rachel  was 
enjoying  her  first  triumphs;  had — well,  I  don't 
know  whom  she  hadn't  known,  or  where  she  hadn't 
been.  And  yet  she  was  a  poor  old  waif,  living 
on  the  kindly  tolerance  of  anybody  she  could  appeal 
to  in  an  alien  land.  We  always  thought  she  was 
a  political  exile.  We  knew  she  was  a  victim  of 
drink  and  drugs;  and  whether  she  was  hunted  by 
foreign  government  spies,  as  she  imagined,  or  by 
her  own  conscience  and  the  horrid  shapes  of  her 
dissipations,  didn't  particularly  matter.  She  taught 
me  French  and  German,  and  music,  and — and 
other  things !  Sometimes  she  would  disappear  and 
be  gone  two  or  three  weeks,  or  even  longer — to 
New  Orleans,  on  a  spree.  Always,  when  she  came 
back,  '  they '  were  '  after '  her,  and  we'd  take  her 
in  and  make  much  show  of  hiding  her,  and  in  her 
gratitude  and  remorse,  combined,  she'd  nearly  kill 
me  with  overdoses  of  instruction!  .  .  .  Some- 
times Aunt  Elie  and  I  would  go  to  New  Orleans 
with  her,  and  the  queer  places  she  took  us!  I 
wouldn't  take  a  great  many  thousand  dollars  for 
what  I  saw  of  the  French  Quarter  under  old 

250 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

Madame's  guidance  and  Aunt  Elie's  chaperonage. 
Think  of  the  combination!  I  learned  fencing  in 
New  Orleans,  of  the  weirdest,  witheredest  old  man, 
as  mysterious  as  Madame  herself.  He  lived  in  a 
room  over  a  macaroni  shop.  How  I  remember 
that  dirty,  entrancing  shop,  where  the  whole  front 
came  out  like  a  shutter,  and  one  could  stand  on 
the  banquette  and  watch  the  old,  blind  white 
horse  turning  the  rude  machinery  that  ground  out 
the  long,  white  strings  which  two  men  cut  off  in 
armfuls  and  hung  up  to  the  rafters  to  dry.  And 
there  was  hardly  an  acquaintance  of  Madame's 
whom  she  could  tell  about  save  in  a  whisper,  with 
many  frightened  glances  back  and  around,  to  make 
sure  her  friends'  pursuers  were  not  listening.  To 
this  day  I'm  burning  with  curiosity  to  know 
whether  all  those  queer  people  were  really  arch- 
conspirators,  guilty  of  high  treason,  or  whether 
they  fancied  themselves  such,  or  only  Madame  so 
mistook  them." 

"  By  Jove !  "  said  Vincent,  "  you  never  told  me 
any  of  this  before.  It's  as  interesting  as  the 
4  Arabian  Nights.'  " 

"  It  is,  and  just  as  foreign.  We  went  to  New 
Orleans  one  winter  when  The  Old  Man  was  play- 
ing there,  at  Carnival  time,  and  he  went  so  crazy 
about  our  old  Witch  of  Endor — as  Grandfather 
McClintock  used  to  call  her — that  he  insisted  on 
our  taking  her  abroad  with  us  when  we  went.  But, 

251 


Felicity 

bless  you !  she  went  quite  wild  when  we  suggested 
it.  Whether  she'd  poisoned  a  czar  or  stolen  a 
pocketbook,  she  was  of  no  mind  to  go  back  to 
Europe — that  was  sure." 

"  You've  had  some  experiences  in  your  brief 
day,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Experience !  Why,  I  could  write  a  portly 
book  of  memoirs  of  this  sort  right  now.  You 
see,  The  Old  Man  taught  me  to  find  experience. 
Perhaps  I  was  born  with  this  passion  for  people, 
this  wild  desire  to  '  see  their  wheels  go  wound,'  as 
Budge  says;  but  The  Old  Man  taught  me  how  to 
gratify  my  passion,  and  I  can  never  be  grateful 
enough  for  the  wide-eyed  vagabondage  of  those 
early  years.  Now,  my  success  shuts  me  out  from 
all  that.  A  horrid  little  fanfare  goes  before  me 
everywhere,  and  puts  people  '  on  guard '  before  I 
come.  There's  nothing  more  pathetic  about  suc- 
cess, I  think,  than  the  stiffening  effect  it  has  on 
people  we  meet.  And  in  our  life — here  to-day  and 
gone  to-morrow — we  have  no  time  to  impress  on 
those  we  meet  that  we're  not  different  because 
we've  achieved;  before  we  can  win  them  to  think- 
ing of  us  as  human  beings  and  get  them  to  acting 
like  such  themselves,  we're  gone — to  meet  other 
strange,  stiff  people,  who'll  grasp  us  nervously  by 
the  hand  and  say  how  they  enjoyed  our  acting. 
Do  you  know,"  Felicity  laughed  softly  at  the  pict- 
ure she  drew,  "  some  day  I  shall  astonish  the 

252 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

natives — I  feel  that  I  shall — by  answering  some 
stilted  citizen's  remark  about  my  acting  with,  '  Oh, 
bother  my  acting !  Tell  me  how  long  you've  been 
married  and  if  you're  still  in  love  with  your  wife.'  ' 
"  Is  that  what  you  care  most  to  know?  " 
"  Oh,  for  one  thing.  In  art  we  make  a  great 
deal  of  love ;  we  presuppose  that  it's  the  most  inter- 
esting thing  in  the  world  to  the  great  majority  of 
people.  I  always  want  the  testimony  of  life  on 
this — want  to  know  if  it's  an  old,  old  fallacy  we're 
keeping  up,  or  if  there's  something  divinely  true 
in  the  persistent  love-ideals  of  art.  Some  of  us 
have  expression;  many  haven't.  Do  we  express 
the  majority — we  who  act  and  write  and  paint? 
that's  what  I  want  to  know.  I  play  love  for  people 
all  the  time.  Everybody  says  it's  the  one  thing 
people  want,  that  no  play  can  go  without  it.  I 
wonder!  I  wonder  if  the  hunger  for  love  is  the 
dominant  passion  in  most  lives,  from  start  to  finish. 
Why,  this  spring,  when  we  were  considering  plays 
for  next  season,  there  was  one  I  liked  very  much; 
it  was  the  freshest,  finest-flavored  thing  I'd  ever 
had  offered  to  me.  But  Garvish  wouldn't  listen 
to  me.  '  It's  no  good,'  he  insisted,  '  the  heroine's 
married  twice,  and  the  dear  public  never  takes  any 
stock  in  second  marriages.  They  believe  in  love 
at  first  sight  and  one  love  only  through  all  eternity 
• — no  chance  of  mistaking  it,  ever,  or  of  going  back 
on  it,  or  of  taking  up  with  a  counterfeit.  They 

253 


Felicity 


all  know  better — they  must — but  they  don't  want 
to  know  better;  they  want  the  players  and  the 
poets  and  the  story-writers  to  contradict  'em,  to 
deny  their  own  experience — to  take  'em  out  o'  their 
own  experience,  I  guess.'  Now,  I  want  to  know  if 
that's  so.  I  want  to  ask  every  human  being  I 
meet  what  he  thinks  about  it,  instead  of  listening 
to  his  observations  on  the  weather.  But  I  can't! 
They'd  think  I  was  crazy,  or,  worse,  impertinent. 
I've  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  stop  people 
in  the  streets,  on  the  cars,  and  ask  them  what  they 
want  most.  I'm  green  with  envy  of  those  fairies 
who  could  give  folks  three  wishes — not  so  much 
because  I  yearn  to  give  them  what  they  want — 
perhaps  I'm  too  wise  to  wish  to  do  that! — as 
because  I  want  to  know  what  they'd  choose." 

"Money — most  or  all  of  'em!"  interjected 
Vincent,  with  decision. 

"Then  I'd  make  'em  tell  what  for!  When  I 
go  down  in  lower  New  York,  and  see  all  those 
thousands  of  men  hurrying,  skurrying,  with  anx- 
ious faces,  I  want  to  know  what  each  of  them's 
after  money  for — whether  some  woman  can't  be 
held  unless  she  gets  a  pearl  necklace,  or  some  social 
status  can't  be  attained  without  a  steam  yacht,  or 
some  enemy  can't  be  crushed  without  the  strategy 
that  makes  other  men  chary  of  his  stocks — or 
what!  And  when  I  see  the  women  spending  the 
money,  uptown,  I  want  to  know  what  they  hope 

254 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

to  accomplish.  Is  this  gown  to  enchant  a  difficult 
lover,  or  to  make  a  rival  envious,  or  to  impress  a 
social  leader — or  what?  What  do  they  all  love, 
those  people?  Power?  Popularity?  I  have 
power  and  popularity,  and  I  know  they  don't  fill 
my  heart,  so  why  should  I  suppose  they  fill  any- 
body's? Then  what  is  it  that  hearts  hunger  for? 
That's  what  I  want  to  ask  these  strange,  stiff  peo- 
ple who  say  they  like  my  acting.  And  that's  what 
I  can't  get  at  first  hand  any  more,  so  I  have  to  get 
it  as  best  I  can  in  books.  When  I  have  my  house, 
where  I  can  keep  things,  I'm  going  to  have  every 
book  I  can  buy  that  tells  honestly  what  one  heart 
desired  of  life  and  what  it  got,  and  how  it  made 
its  compromise.  Nobody  could  look  at  that,  now," 
indicating  the  broad  path  of  silvered  waters  that 
seemed  to  lead  straight  from  their  nest  in  the  sand 
to  whatever  glory  the  heart  desired,  "  without 
vague  stirrings  of  wistfulness  for  something.  To 
every  one  who  sits  by  any  sea  to-night,  that  path 
leads  straight  from  his  feet,  as  from  ours.  Where 
do  those  paths  end  for  each?  If  we  could  only 
know!" 

"What  good  would  it  do?"  Vincent  was  not 
unmoved  by  her  mood,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  a 
very  impractical  one,  out  of  which  she  seemed  to 
get  a  most  unrestful  yearning  that  could  never  by 
any  chance  be  satisfied,  and  was,  therefore,  better 
dismissed. 

255 


Felicity 

And  she,  when  the  question  was  put  to  her  thus 
bluntly,  could  not  answer.  The  humor  of  apprais- 
ing the  thing  that  way  appealed  to  her,  though, 
and  she  laughed. 

When  they  went  in,  stepping  quietly  so  as  not 
to  wake  the  sleeping  household,  Vincent  whispered, 
holding  her  hand  for  a  moment  as  he  said  good- 
night, that  no  one  in  this  house,  evidently,  had 
been  losing  sleep,  "  wishing  on  the  moon."  And 
Felicity,  when  her  door  was  closed  on  his  laughing 
presence,  and  she  had  heard  his  door  close  at  the 
other  end  of  the  hall,  sat  down  by  her  window 
looking  seaward  and  smiled  in  the  moonlit  dark 
at  Vincent's  cheery  matter-of-factness. 

"  I'm  inclined  to  think  he's  right  and  I'm 
wrong,"  she  told  herself.  "  I  believe  he  represents 
the  big,  human  majority  far  better  than  I  do. 
He's  nearer  sane  than  I  am,  and  wholesomer.  I 
'  moon '  too  much.  It  was  funny — our  coming  in 
at  ten  o'clock  on  this  glorious  night  and  finding 
this  household  so  far  from  wistfulness  as  to  be — 
snoring,  probably !  " 

And  laughing  softly  to  herself  she  undressed 
in  the  dark  and  went  to  bed  to  sleep  soundly, 
instead  of  sitting  by  the  window  for  hours  as  she 
so  often  did,  wondering — always  wondering. 

She  did  not  know — how  could  she? — that 
Frances  had  spent  the  evening  by  her  window, 
looking  out  across  the  shining  path  and  thinking, 

256 


The  Shining  Path  to  the  Moon 

with  a  full  heart,  of  The  Old  Man,,  her  father; 
and  that  the  little  Cape  Cod  girl,  Phemie,  who  had 
so  stolidly  waited  on  the  supper  table,  cried  her- 
self to  sleep  thinking  of  the  same  moon  shining 
on  her  lover  with  his  fellows  of  the  mackerel  fleet 
off  the  Grand  Banks. 


257 


CHAPTER    XVII 

A    STAGE    LOVER    MAKES    REAL    LOVE,    AND    IT'S 
DIFFERENT 

IT  was  not  Vincent's  way  to  lie  long  awake  after 
retiring,  and  to-night  he  was  deliciously 
drowsy  hours  before  his  usual  bedtime,  thanks  to 
the  sea  air.  But  before  he  dozed  off  he  reflected 
with  amusement  on  his  reply  to  Felicity's  "  moon- 
shine," and  the  way  circumstances  upheld  him 
in  the  dark,  silent  house. 

"  That  poor  girl,"  Vincent  mused,  kindly, 
"  moons  too  much.  She  lives  too  much  by  herself. 
It's  pretty  rough,  the  way  her  few  folks  have  been 
stripped  from  her,  but  land!  actors  are  seldom 
long  on  family,  and  if  they  are,  they  don't  see  much 
of  their  folks.  We  have  to  learn  to  take  up  with 
the  companionship  we  can  get  as  we  go." 

That  Felicity  could  get  almost  any  companion- 
ship she  chose,  he  knew.  Remembering  that,  he 
could  but  marvel  that  she  chose  so  little  and  that 
she  continued  to  choose  him  so  signally.  Vincent 
was  not  over  modest — the  stage  does  not  foster 
that  trait — but  he  was  fully  sensible  that  at  this 

258 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

moment  there  were  any  number  of  younger  and  a 
goodly  number  of  abler  men  whom  she  might  have 
had  under  her  rooftree,  to  whom  she  might  have 
poured  out  her  charming  confidence  on  the  beach 
by  the  moonlit  sea.  Why  did  she  favor  him? 
Vincent  wondered.  Had  she  a  lingering  sentiment 
for  the  old  ardor  of  the  fledgling  ingenue?  It 
would  be  like  her  to  cherish  that.  And  there  were 
times  when  it  seemed  as  if  she — but  pshaw !  Vin- 
cent was  no  "  silly  ass,"  he  told  himself,  thanking 
Heaven  fervently  therefor,  to  conclude  that  a 
woman  was  "  after  him  "  because  she  showed  him 
friendliness  for  old  times'  sake.  Still 

But  at  this  point  Vincent  fell  asleep.  When  he 
woke,  it  was  with  an  unfamiliar  sense  of  having 
gone  to  sleep  with  some  unsolved  unpleasantness 
on  his  mind.  What  the  deuce  was  it?  he  won- 
dered, as  he  lay  blinking  on  a  new  day.  He  had 
been  told  he  need  not  get  up  until  the  spirit  moved 
him — that  breakfast  could  be  had  at  any  time,  for 
the  asking.  It  was  nice  to  visit  and  not  have  to 
"  lie  awake  listening  for  a  blamed  bell."  But 
what  was  it  that  ran,  like  a  fretful  undercurrent, 
through  his  mind,  and  kept  dozy  peace  at  bay? 
Oh,  yes ! 

Vincent  wished  he  knew  what  Felicity  thought 
about  him.  He  wanted  to  do  the  decent  thing,  and 
he  was  not  at  all  certain  what  that  was.  If  Felicity 
were  really  offering  him  her  favor — her  more  than 

259 


Felicity 

friendly  favor — he  wanted  to  know  it ;  for  not  for 
worlds  would  he  embarrass  her  by  misunderstand- 
ing her  offer,  let  alone  slighting  it.  No,  by  Jove ! 
he'd  cut  his  tongue  out  before  he'd  let  it  say  a  word 
that  might  send  a  flush  of  shamed  affection  to  that 
lovely  face.  Oh,  gee!  he  should  have  figured  all 
this  out  before  he  left  New  York — before  he  sent 
the  telegram.  And  he  knew  people  were  talking 
about  them,  too.  A  month  ago  he  had  determined 
to  do  something  about  it,  and  then — there  did  not 
seem  to  be  anything  to  do.  He  had  stayed  away, 
and  not  written,  except  on  business,  till  by-and-by 
he  had  almost  forgotten  what  he  was  not  writ- 
ing for. 

"  Botheration !  "  imprecated  Vincent,  swinging 
half  out  of  bed  with  a  sigh  for  his  spoiled  second 
nap,  and  sitting  with  his  feet  on  the  floor  and  his 
head  in  his  hands — thinking.  "  I  wish  I  knew !  I 
wish  I  knew  about  myself,  and  then  I  could  walk 
up  to  her  like  a  man  and  find  out  what  she  thinks ! 
I'm  fond  of  her,  of  course,  and  admire  her  tre- 
mendously, and  it  wouldn't  be  any  hardship  to  try 
to  make  her  happy.  But  would  I  do  it  if  it  was 
hard,  instead  of  easy?  Seems  as  if  that  ought  to 
be  the  way  a  fellow  could  figure  it  out.  I  shouldn't 
want  to  be  the  cur  that'd  marry  a  woman  for  her 
money  or  her  fame  or  what  she  could  do  for  me; 
I'd  rather  have  my  self-respect  than  all  her  bene- 
fits. But  how  could  a  fellow  ever  feel  that  he'd 

260 


married  her  for  what  she  has?  She's  so  charming, 
so — well,  so  much  bigger  than  anything  she's  got ! 
All  the  books  and  plays  are  as  she  says — they 
try  to  make  you  believe,  if  it's  love,  you'll  know  it 
for  sure  at  first  sight.  I  don't  feel  like  the  lovers 
I  always  play — I'm  sure  of  that.  I  don't  feel  any- 
thing like  I've  felt  a  couple  o'  dozen  times  when  I 
thought  I  was  in  love — and  then  felt  sure  I  wasn't. 
I've  seen  a  number  o'  women  I  thought  I  couldn't 
live  without,  but  I've  never  seen  one  yet  I  was 
sure  I  wanted  to  live  with — that's  the  trouble.  It 
doesn't  prove  anything  that  I  know  I  can  live  with- 
out Felicity  Fergus — either;  I've  thought  the  other 
way  too  many  times  and  learned  it  was  false  alarm. 
Then  what  the  dickens  does  prove  anything? 
How's  a  fellow  to  know  ?  Here  I've  been  playing 
love  for  twenty  years,  making  a  lot  o'  fool  women 
crazy  with  the  way  I  did  it,  and  I  don't  know  a 
bit  more  about  the  real  thing  than  a  baby.  I  only 
know  I  wouldn't  hurt  that  girl's  feelings  for — for 
a  mint!  " 

Vincent  had  but  one  thought  when  he  went 
down  stairs,  immaculately  dressed  in  cream  flannels 
and  looking,  as  he  could  not  help  knowing,  very 
handsome:  and  that  was  to  keep  out  of  Felicity's 
way  until  he  got  "  a  better  hold  on  this  thing." 
This  was  easier  than  he  had  dared  to  hope,  for 
Felicity  was  away,  an  hour  ago,  to  the  harbor,  in 
search  of  freshly-caught  lobsters.  And  when  he 

261 


Felicity 


had  been  served  with  breakfast  by  Phemie,  and 
had  exchanged  a  few  remarks  with  Frances,  who 
was  busy  with  housewifery,  he  was  free  to  do  as 
he  liked. 

Mr.  Allston  and  Adams  would  be  down  by 
to-night's  stage,  to  stay  over  the  Fourth  and  finish 
the  week  out,  but  there  would  be  no  other  guests. 
Felicity  had  said  something  last  night  about  get- 
ting a  skipper  to  sail  them  over  that  afternoon  to 
where  Joe  Jefferson  was  building  his  new  house 
on  the  Bay.  That  would  be  pleasant.  Meantime — 
well,  he'd  "  go  in  "  about  eleven;  till  then 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  strolled  to  the  beach, 
where  he  found  that  same  overturned  boat  in  the 
warm  sand  and  sat  down  to  think  things  out — a 
most  unusual  occupation  for  impulsive  Vincent, 
who  always  acted  first  and  then,  convinced  that 
after-thinking  seldom  mends  matters,  did  not  think 
at  all. 

He  was  finding  his  effort  arduous  and  without 
promise  of  fruitfulness,  when  a  diversion  presented 
itself  in  the  person  of  a  small  boy,  of  seven, 
perhaps.  This  person  had  his  abbreviated  trousers 
unbuttoned  at  each  knee  and  rolled  half  way  up 
his  diminutive  thighs,  which,  by  the  whiteness  of 
them,  bespoke  a  brief  practice  of  this  exposure.  He 
carried  a  fishing  pole,  which  bespoke — well,  a 
whole,  lively  little  comedy  to  Vincent. 

The  boy  was  surveying  Vincent  with  a  half 
262 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

hopeful  interest  which  he  made  haste  to  disguise 
when  Vincent  returned  the  scrutiny  in  kind. 

"  Hello,  bub,"  said  Vincent 

"  H'lo,"  was  the  rather  offish  response. 

"  Lookin'  for  anybody?" 

"  Naw,"  with  a  fine  assumption  of  toughness, 
"  there's  nobody  to  look  for." 

"  I  sympathize  with  you,"  said  Vincent',  gravely; 
"  I'm  in  that  fix  myself." 

"  Do  your  folks  live  here?  " 

"  No;  but  if  they  did,  a  fellow  hardly  comes  to 
the  seashore  to  get  acquainted  with  his  folks 
—eh?" 

"  Naw;  that's  what  I  say.  Can't  see  what  my 
folks  wanted  to  come  here  for — ain't  a  fellow  in 
miles.  I  just  now  went  to  the  Harbor  and  some 
boys  got  gay  with  me — asked  me  'f  I  was  goin'  to 
ketch  a  whale.  I'd  like  to  see  them  try  to  ride  a 
bicycle." 

"  I  don't  suppose  they  ever  saw  a  bicycle,"  said 
Vincent,  with  feigned  contempt.  The  boy  was 
delighted,  but  gave  no  sign,  of  course. 

"  You  and  I  might  go  fishin'  together,"  sug- 
gested Vincent;  "  you  can't  catch  anything  close  to 
shore,  except  clams  and  crabs,  but  I'm  thinkin'  of 
gettin'  a  sailboat  and  a  skipper  to  sail  it,  and  going 
after  bluefish — deep-sea  trolling,  y'  know.  That's 
the  thing  to  do  down  here  in  the  fishin'  line." 

"When  you  goin'?" 

263 


Felicity 


"  Well,  maybe  this  afternoon — I  don't  know. 
Where  d'  you  live?  " 

The  boy  indicated  with  his  head — evidently 
some  place  further  along  the  beach,  away  from  the 
Harbor,  than  Fair  View.  "  Where  d'  you?  "  he 
inquired. 

"  I'm  stopping  at  Fair  View  for  a  few  days." 

"Who  lives  there?" 

"  Miss  Fergus  and  Mrs.  Allston.  You  don't 
seem  to  be  very  well  acquainted  'round  these 
parts." 

"  I  ain't.  I  just  come  this  Monday.  I  never 
been  here  before.  I  live  in  Peoria." 

"  Nice  town — Peoria,"  observed  Vincent,  po- 
litely. 

"Been  there?" 

"  Yes,  a  lot  o'  times." 

"  I  wish  some  o'  the  fellows  was  here,"  sighed 
the  boy;  "  we  could  have  a  bully  time." 

"  Not  given  to  solitude  and  the  pleasures  of  con- 
templation, are  you  ?  "  said  Vincent,  whimsically. 

"  Sir?  "  said  Bub,  startled  into  politeness. 

Vincent  laughed.  "  I  said,  you  are  like  me,  you 
can't  have  a  whalin'  good  time  just  lookin'  at  the 
sad  sea  waves." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  let's  get  acquainted,  and  see  if  we  can't 
entertain  each  other.  My  name's  Delano — Vin- 
cent Delano.  What's  yours?  " 

264 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

"  Mine's  Bill  Saunders." 

"Fine!  I  always  like  fellows  named  Bill — 
don't  know  why,  but  they're  usually  hot  sports,  and 
I  like  'em." 

Bill  tried  not  to  look  as  pleased  as  he  felt.  To 
be  thought  "  a  hot  sport  " !  Ah,  that  made  life 
seem  worth  living  in  this  desert  by  the  sea. 

"  Say,"  he  remarked,  emboldened  by  Vincent's 
easy  manner,  "  you  talk  kind  o'  funny.  What  na- 
tionality are  you?"  Bill  had  just  mastered  this 
imposing  word. 

"None,"  answered  Vincent,  gravely;  "I'm  an 
actor." 

Now,  Bill  was  only  seven,  but  he  was  sophisti- 
cated. He  knew,  all  things  considered,  a  good 
deal  about  actors,  and  he  had  respect  for  them. 

"  Gee !  "  he  exclaimed,  almost  deferentially. 
Then,  "  Ever  acted  in  a  circus?  " 

"  No;  but  a  good  many  years  ago  I  was  in  a 
minstrel  show." 

Bill  accepted  the  admission  as  a  boast.  '  Think 
you'll  ever  get  in  a  circus?  "  he  pursued,  anxiously. 

"  I  don't  know.    I  may." 

"What'llyoube?"  eagerly. 

"  Well,  now,  Bill,  I  don't  know.  It  won't  be 
an  acrobat,  or  a  bareback  rider " 

"  Ner  a  chariot-driver?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not — nor  a  contortionist.  I'm  too 
stiff  in  the  joints  for  any  of  those.  But  I  might — 

265 


Felicity- 


no,  I  couldn't  even  be  a  clown;  clowns  have  to  tum- 
ble too  much.  I  could  feed  the  elephants." 

Bill  looked  disappointed.  The  prospect  seemed 
faint  and  not  very  alluring.  "  What  d'  ye  act 
now?  "  he  said. 

Vincent  tried  to  explain,  and  was  hugely  amused 
to  feel  himself  shrinking  in  Bill's  estimation — to 
know  that  he  escaped  positive  contempt  only  be- 
cause Bill  did  not  quite  understand  his  account  of 
himself. 

"  I  hoped,"  said  Bill,  "  you  was  a  funny  man.  I 
like  those  next  to  chariot-drivers  and  lion-tamers." 

Vincent  sighed  that  he  was  not,  and  seemed  so 
really  cast  down  about  it  that  Bill  tactfully  changed 
the  subject. 

An  hour  later,  when  Felicity  came  along  the 
beach  from  the  Harbor,  they  were  deep  in  the  dep- 
redations of  Captain  Kidd  and  Lafitte,  u  the  Black 
Terror." 

"  Bill  Saunders,  Miss  Fergus,"  said  Vincent, 
introducing  his  new  friend. 

Felicity  was  delighted  with  the  swaggering 
name,  and  with  Bill's  evident  intent  to  live  up  to 
it.  But  Bill,  somehow,  found  Vincent  less  absorb- 
ing after  this  interruption. 

Felicity  had  a  big,  covered  market-basket  on 
her  arm.  Setting  it  down,  she  swung  off  the  cover 
to  show  her  lobsters. 

"  They  were  all  out  of  red  ones  today,"  she 
266 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

laughed — and  went  on  to  explain  that  the  first 
time  she  went  to  the  Harbor  to  buy  lobsters  she 
had  so  delighted  an  old  lobster-fisher  by  asking 
anxiously  for  "  red  ones,"  that  every  time  he  saw 
her  thereafter  he  made  haste  to  say  that  he  had 
just  sold  out  his  red  lobsters  and  had  only  dark 
ones  left. 

They  poked  at  the  crustaceans  for  a  while,  then 
Felicity  proposed  that  Bill  dig  a  hole  in  the  beach 
and  return  the  poor  things  to  their  native  element 
once  more  before  they  died. 

This  proposition  struck  Bill  pleasantly,  and  he 
set  about  the  digging,  in  a  location  carefully  chosen 
so  that  each  wave  as  it  rolled  in  would  leave  a 
little  of  the  briny  deep  for  the  lobsters'  refresh- 
ment. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  asked  Felicity,  when 
Bill  was  out  of  earshot. 

Vincent  explained. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  fond  of  children,"  said 
Felicity,  a  little  surprised. 

"Me?  Why,  I'm  crazy  about  'em!  Wish  I 
had  a  dozen.  But  what's  the  use?  It's  not  what 
I  was  cut  out  for,  I  guess.  Imagine  me  a  suburban 
paterfamilias,  going  home  nights  with  a  jug  o' 
molasses,  a  clothes-horse,  a  sack  o'  flour  and  a 
section  o'  garden  hose;  and  getting  up  early  in 
the  morning  to  run  the  lawn-mower  before  taking 
my  seven-fifteen  to  town !  " 

267 


Felicity 

Felicity  laughed. 

"  Well,  that's  the  way  to  raise  families,  and  to 
enjoy  'em — from  all  I  can  see.  And  I  don't  fit 
into  the  scheme  at  all,  somehow.  When  I  meet  up 
with  a  fellow  like  Bill,  I  feel  kind  o' — well,  kind 
o'  like  I  was  missing  a  good  deal.  But  what's  the 
use  o'  feeling  that  way?  Everybody's  missing  a 
good  deal,  no  matter  how  much  he's  got,  and 
everybody's  just  pluggin'  ahead  doing  the  best  he 
can,  notwithstanding." 

"  You're  a  good  deal  of  a  philosopher,  I  see," 
commented  Felicity,  and  her  look  and  tone  said 
plainly  she  had  not  expected  as  much. 

"  Oh,  hang  it !  Miss  Fergus,  even  a  fool  has  his 
philosophy,  and  there's  no  one  so  foolish  as  the 
wise  man  who  doesn't  know  that.  Everybody's 
steering  by  some  chart  he's  made  or  adopted — and 
some  o'  the  charts  the  plain  sea-dogs  make  for 
themselves  out  of  their  experience  are  better  'n  all 
the  hydrographic  thingumbobs  in  creation.  Jove! 
that's  a  heavy  speech  for  yours  truly " 

"It  was  a  good  one,"  said  Felicity,  gravely; 
"  it  had  a  tang  of  The  Old  Man  about  it." 

"Now  I  am  '  sot  up,'"  laughed  Vincent;  "I 
never  expected  to  remind  you  of  The  Old  Man — 
except,  maybe,  by  contrast." 

"  I  am  foolish  about  him,"  admitted  Felicity, 
ignoring  the  chance  for  compliment;  "  but  he  made 
life  so  infinitely  delightful !  I  resent  having  lost 

268 


him  before  I  really  had  sense  to  appreciate  him. 
I  want  him  now!  I  want  him  all  the  time!  I 
challenge  every  one  I  meet,  to  see  if  I  can't  find 
another  of  his  sort.  But  I'm  afraid  '  I  shall  not 
look  upon  his  like  again.'  ' 

'  Then,"  said  Vincent,  clinchingly,  "  why  don't 
you  stop  looking?  I  don't  believe  in  looking  for 
what  you  can't  find." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  deliberating,  "  you  don't 
— but  I'm  not  sure  but  that  I  do.  There's  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  both  philosophies.  They're 
both  as  old  as  the  world,  I  guess,  and  both 
have  made  men  happy.  There's  a  kind  of  zest 
in  my  continual  expectancy  that  balances  the  satis- 
faction you  manage  to  feel  in  what  comes  your 
way." 

"  Say,"  called  Bill,  "  I  got  the  hole  dug,  but  I 
won't  put  'em  in !  " 

Vincent  went  to  help  him,  and  as  Felicity 
watched  them  together,  taking  note  of  their  fine 
comradeship,  she  felt  a  sudden  yearning  over  this 
bonny  man,  with  his  admission  about  "  missing 
something."  It  was  not  often  one  could  yearn 
over  Vincent,  and  she  found  the  new  sensation 
very  sweet. 

The  ungracious  lobsters  temporarily  restored  to 
their  element,  Bill  found  the  immediate  prospect 
unpromising,  so  he  declared  his  intention  of  going 
home,  but  softened  the  blow  by  adding  that  he 

269 


Felicity 

would  "  be  around  this  afternoon,  and  if  you  want 
me  to  go  fishin',  why,  I  will." 

Vincent  thanked  him — Bill  wasn't  quite  sure  for 
what — and  when  he  was  gone  explained  to  Felicity 
that  if  she  didn't  mind,  he'd  thought  of  "  taking 
the  kid  along  this  afternoon  if  we  went  sailing. 
He's  crazy  to  fish — poor  youngster,  with  that  fool 
perch  pole ! — and  I  thought  we  might  troll.  If  we 
should  happen  to  catch  a  bluefish,  it  'd  tickle  him 
sick.  But,  of  course,  if  you'd  rather  not  be  both- 
ered, I  can  take  him  some  other  time." 

"  Why,  I  wouldn't  miss  taking  him !  "  she  cried, 
"  I — I  like  boys  myself,  and  I — I  believe  I  like 
you  lots  better  with  little  boys  than  with  joss-sticks 
burning  before  you !  " 

There  was  nothing  in  the  little,  half-teasing 
speech,  but  there  was  everything  in  the  tone, 
the  look  that  accompanied  it.  Vincent  forgot  he 
had  not  come  to  any  conclusion  when  Bill  inter- 
rupted his  reflections;  he  forgot  he  had  ever  had 
any  reflections.  Something  in  the  expression  of 
the  brown  eyes,  of  the  sweet,  sensitive  mouth, 
moved  him  strangely,  and  before  he  knew  what 
he  was  doing,  he  was  pouring  out  disjointed  sen- 
tences to  Felicity — telling  her  he  would  be  a  glad 
man  if  he  could  only  know  she  liked  him  a  little, 
for  any  reason. 

It  was  not  a  romantic  environment,  on  the  hot 
sands  in  the  glare  of  noon,  but  both  of  them  had 

270 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

played  at  love-making  in  too  many  fake  moon- 
lights, by  too  many  papier  mdche  sundials,  in  too 
many  painted-muslin  gardens,  to  care  about  ex- 
ternals. 

On  the  stage,  Vincent  was  a  fluent  lover;  off 
the  stage,  his  facile  gallantry  had  never  deserted 
him  before.  But  today  there  seemed  to  be  no 
words  for  the  situation.  What  he  felt  expressed 
itself  in  murmurs,  in  little  snatches  of  phrases, 
now  halting,  now  hurried.  There  was  small  cohe- 
rence to  it,  but  Felicity  did  not  care,  did  not  know. 
She  heard  what  he  said  far  less  than  the  tones 
of  his  voice.  Nor  could  she  find  words  to  an- 
swer, but  there  was  that  something  yielding  in 
the  quality  of  her  silence  that  gave  him  courage 
to  go  on. 

"  There  are — "  he  said,  not  looking  at  her,  but 
delving  industriously  in  the  sand  at  his  other  side, 
"  I  hate  myself  for  remembering  them,  but  you 
know — well,  you  have  a  lot  of  everything,  you  see, 
and  I — there  isn't  really  anything  I  can  offer  you. 
I  don't  know  why  I  should  dare  to — to  ask  you, 
you  know — only  you — well,  you  make  it  so  easy 
for  a  fellow  to  forget  your — your  fame,  and  all 
that.  I  don't  suppose  I'm  the — the  kind  of  a  man 
a  woman  like  you  could  have  a  great  passion  for. 
I'm  not — well,  not  up  to  you  in  any  way.  But 
I'm  a  happy  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  perhaps  I  could 
— could  give  you  something,  in  my  way.  If  you 

271 


Felicity 

would — would  take  me  for  what  I  am,  I'd  do  my 
best  for  you — Felicity !  " 

Twice  or  thrice  she  essayed  to  speak,  but  found 
herself  tongue-tied.  At  last,  after  he  had  stopped 
talking  and  had  waited  what  seemed  an  inter- 
minable while,  during  which  he  had  not  once 
glanced  at  her  but  kept  on  looking,  as  she  looked, 
out  to  sea,  she  laid  her  face  upon  her  updrawn 
knees,  enfolded  it  with  her  arms,  and  burst  into 
tears.  In  an  instant  Vincent  was  holding  her  in 
his  arms  and  crooning  comfort  to  her. 

"  Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "  I've  been  so  lonely — no- 
body knows  how  lonely !  " 

"  Of  course  you  have,"  he  soothed,  hushing  her 
with  acquiescence  and  with  gentle  patting,  as  if  she 
had  been  a  child.  "  You've  worked  too  hard,  and 
haven't  had  enough  other  interests,"  he  went  on, 
his  easy  good  humor  returning  to  him  with  his 
command  of  the  situation;  "you've  needed  an 
every-day,  easy-going  chap  like  me  to  take  your 
mind  off  your  work  and  make  you  feel  like  a  human 
being." 

"  They're  always  crowding  you,"  she  mur- 
mured, u  you  can't  ever  rest.  There's  always 
somebody  just  behind  you  trying  to  snatch  your 
laurels.  And  the  public  always  expects  more  and 
more  of  you.  It's  such  hard  work  to  keep  on  top ; 
if  you  don't  keep  keyed  up  every  minute,  you  lose 
your  place." 

272 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  comforted  Vincent,  easily, 
"  there's  nobody  within  hailing  distance  of  you — 
you  don't  need  to  kill  yourself  keeping  ahead." 

"  If  I  stayed  out  a  single  season,  somebody'd 
pass  me,"  she  insisted. 

"  Well!  You  don't  want  to  stay  out,  do  you? 
You  want  to  stay  in,  and  get  all  the  fun  you  can 
out  of  winning." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  There  isn't  any  fun  in 
it,"  she  declared;  "when  you've  won,  you're  too 
tired  to  care." 

"  Then  why  run?  "  he  protested. 

"  Because  I  have  to!  I  don't  know  any  other 
way,  now;  it's  all  there  is  in  me." 

"  Nonsense!  "  said  Vincent,  laughing  at  her  and 
shaking  his  head  in  mock  despair,  "  don't  you  ever 
believe  it !  You've  got  more  whimsies  and  contra- 
dictions and  delusions  and  snares  about  you  than 
would  stock  a  whole  new  race  o'  womankind.  Now, 
if  I'm  not  mistaken,  that  horn's  blowing  from  your 
front  porch,  and  I  suppose  it  means  dinner.  I 
asked  you  a — well,  a  rather  large  question,  a  while 
ago.  Before  we  go  in,  would  you  mind  giving  me 
an  answer?  " 

His  raillery  was  full  of  embarrassment,  but  she 
was  grateful  for  it,  even  though  it  did  not  deceive 
her. 

"What  more  answer  do  you  want?"  she  par- 
ried; "  didn't  I  let  you — hold  me  in  your  arms?  " 

273 


Felicity 


"  You  didn't  let  me,"  he  retorted,  "  I  just 
did  it!" 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  you  hadn't 
known — if  I  hadn't  let  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  admitted,  "  I  wouldn't  have  dared  to 
— to  take  any  very  long  chances." 

"  Then  why  do  you  want  me  to — to  make  a  for- 
mal speech  of  acceptance?" 

Vincent  was  sure  he  had  never  seen  anything 
lovelier  than  her  blushing  confusion.  "  I  don't," 
he  pleaded,  "  I  just  want  you  to  take  my  word  for 
it  that  there  isn't  a  creature  in  sight — except  the 
lobsters — and  you  needn't  mind  the  speech!  " 

He  gave  her  his  hand  and  helped  her  to  her  feet. 
Then,  with  flaming  cheeks  and  deeply  conscious 
eyes,  she  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck  again, 
as  on  that  wonderful  night,  so  long,  long  ago,  and 
raised  her  face  to  his — conscious,  with  all  her  soft 
embarrassment,  of  the  difference  in  the  thrill  of 
that  brief  abandonment,  but  laying  it  to  the  years, 
and  to  their  experience.  Enchantment  was  for 
sweet  sixteen;  it  was  enough  for  eight-and-twenty 
to  feel  hopefulness. 

"  We  mustn't  forget  the  lobsters,"  she  cautioned. 
And  they  both  laughed  heartily. 

"  Fancy  the  just-betrothed  doing  this  in  a  play," 
she  said,  as  she  stooped  with  him  over  Bill's  briny 
hole,  trying  to  poke  the  lobsters  back  into  the 
basket  with  a  crooked  stick. 

274 


A  Stage  Lover  Makes  Real  Love 

By  tacit  consent  they  talked  shop  the  brief  way 
home;  it  brought  them  there  so  much  better  fitted 
to  face  Frances  nonchalantly  and  go  about  the  very 
mundane  business  of  eating  dinner. 

They  had  to  hurry  a  little,  so  as  to  get  an  early 
start  on  their  sail ;  and  while  the  ladies  were  getting 
ready,  Vincent  went  to  the  beach  to  look  for  Bill. 
He  was  there — with  his  fishing-pole! 

"  Come  on,  Sport !  "  called  Vincent,  refraining 
from  comment  on  the  pole. 

And  so  Bill  attached  himself  to  the  party,  quite 
naturally,  as  if  he  belonged  there,  and  was  no  more 
conscious  than  the  others  of  his  agency  in  the  turn 
of  affairs  that  morning. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

FAME    FRIGHTENS    LOVE;    WANT   WOOS    HIM 

LIKE  most  women,  Frances  took  a  keen  inter- 
est in  match-making,  and  she  had  her  sus- 
picions of  something  more  than  business — more, 
even,  than  long-founded  friendship — in  the  rela- 
tions between  Felicity  and  Vincent.  She  thought 
these  suspicions  were  confirmed  by  something  in 
Felicity's  manner  that  night  as  she  introduced  Vin- 
cent to  Mr.  Allston  and  Adams — by  something 
in  the  look  she  flashed  at  Delano  when  she  said, 
"  My  leading  man." 

But  there  was  no  occasion  to  invite  confidence 
that  evening.  Usually,  in  the  quiet  midweek  even- 
ings of  the  past  month,  when  only  they  two  com- 
prised the  Fair  View  household,  Felicity  had  come 
into  her  room  at  the  early  bedtime  and,  sitting 
there  in  her  night-dress  or  lounging  gown,  had 
talked  of  such  things  as  one  is  not  likely  to  discuss 
in  less  intimate  surroundings.  But  last  night, 
though  she  had  been  awake  when  Felicity  came  in, 
and  had  lain  listening  for  the  tap  on  her  door  which 
was  meant  not  to  disturb  her  if  she  slept,  but  to 

276 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

hail  her  if  she  did  not,  it  never  came.  To-night 
it  would  not — nor  the  next,  nor  for  several  nights, 
for  Herbert  Allston  was  to  stay  at  Fair  View  until 
Monday  morning. 

After  supper  the  mail  was  to  be  had  in  the 
grocery  store  at  the  Harbor — where  it  was  nip 
and  tuck  whether  the  grocer  eked  out  a  living  by 
being  also  postmaster,  or  the  postmaster  supple- 
mented a  scant  government  income  by  selling  gro- 
ceries. The  groceries  took  more  of  his  time,  but 
he  liked  to  be  called  The  Postmaster. 

Usually,  the  hired  boy  went  for  the  mail  and  for 
such  supplies  as  came  down  by  express,  which  the 
stage  also  carried.  But  to-night  he  had  leave  to 
attend  the  barbecue  on  the  beach,  three  miles  away, 
and  was  told  that  he  might  go  early — Phemie 
would  feed  the  horse,  and  hitch  up  after  supper. 

There  was  a  good  deal  to  be  brought  over  to- 
night, in  the  way  of  supplies  from  Boston,  and 
Felicity  would,  herself,  drive  over  to  the  Harbor 
she  said.  "  One  of  the  gentlemen  can  drive  over 
with  me,"  she  announced,  in  planning  how  they 
would  manage.  Adams  volunteered,  but  Felicity 
would  not  hear  of  it. 

1  You  three  folkses  want  to  visit,  I  know,"  she 
said,  "  so  I'll  ask  Mr.  Delano  to  go.  We'll  surely 
get  you  a  letter  from  Morton." 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  Frances,  anxiously.  No 
letter  had  yet  come  to  supplement  his  telegram  of 

277 


Felicity 

last  Saturday.  "  It  seems  as  if  he'd  have  written 
on  Sunday." 

"  Well,  even  so,"  argued  Felicity,  "  he  probably 
wouldn't  mail  it  until  Monday,  and  it  couldn't  get 
here  before  to-night." 

"  Is  that  a  '  go,'  Mater?  "  asked  Adams,  watch- 
ing Vincent  and  Felicity  drive  away. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  "  sometimes  I'm 
afraid  so." 

"  Why  '  afraid  '  ?  He  seems  to  be  a  very  decent 
chap.  Certainly  he's  terribly  good-looking,  and 
I  must  say  I  never  saw  such  charming  manners." 

"  I  know,"  murmured  Frances,  "  I  know  all 
that.  He's  a  nice  fellow,  and  I  like  him.  But 
he's  not  her  sort  at  all — not  at  all." 

"  Oh,"  observed  Adams,  philosophically,  "  you 
never  can  tell.  Attraction's  a  queer  thing,  and 
defies  all  our  rules  for  its  reasonable  operation. 
I've  seen  matches  that  promised  beautifully,  turn 
out  abominably,  and  t'other  way  round  just  as 
often." 

"  And  it's  always  safe  to  gamble  on  a  woman, 
any  woman,  being  caught  by  attractiveness,"  sup- 
plemented his  father.  "  There  never  was  one  of 
them  yet  that  married  a  man  for  his  downright 
worth,  his  integrity,  his  responsibility,  his — his 
character.  It's  always  for  his  looks  or  for  his 
charm — the  way  he  dances  or  sings  or  does  parlor 
tricks." 

278 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

"  So  different,"  said  Frances,  abstractedly, 
"  from  the  way  men  do.  With  them  it's  always 
character  that  counts !  " 

Her  manner  was  so  droll  that  even  Herbert  had 
to  laugh. 

"  Poor  little  Sadie,"  she  sighed,  with  seeming 
irrelevance.  "  I  don't  know  why,  but  I'm  worried 
about  her.  I  wish  we  had  a  letter  telling  us  every- 
thing's all  right." 

It  was  past  nine  when  Vincent  and  Felicity  got 
back.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  express  stuff, 
Felicity  explained,  and  it  took  quite  a  while  to 
get  their  packages  and  boxes. 

"  But  we  didn't  mind  waiting;  it's  such  fun  to 
watch  the  people  at  the  store." 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  shining 
as  they  always  were  with  excitement,  and  Frances 
wondered  whether  she  had  learned  something  new 
in  that  everlasting  quest  of  hers  for  the  under- 
standing of  character,  or  if  she  had  been  learning 
something  about  herself.  And  would  she? — Yes, 
Frances  decided  she  would  be  true  to  her  birthright 
of  art  even  when  love  came  to  her,  and  would 
have  the  same  interest  in  it  she  had  in  other  peo- 
ple's— the  interest  of  the  analyst  to  know  how  it 
affected  life. 

But  these  wonderings  about  Felicity  and  her 
shining  eyes  were  soon  put  in  abeyance  by  the  deliv- 
ery of  Morton's  letter,  which  Frances  tore  open 

279 


Felicity 


with  an  eagerness  hardly  to  be  accounted  for  even 
in  the  circumstances. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said — as  if  any  one  were 
blaming  her — "  but  I  have  had  a  presentiment 
that  things  were  not  going  to  go  right  with  Sadie, 
and  I  can't  shake  it  off." 

Alas !  the  letter  confirmed  her  fears. 

"  Sarah  Frances  is  a  bouncing  young  lady," 
Morton  wrote;  "  but  I  am  distressed  to  say  that 
her  mother  does  not  seem  to  be  doing  as  well  as 
the  doctors  think  she  should.  There  is — oh, 
Mater  dearest,  I  wish  you  were  here  and  could 
tell  me  about  things ;  the  doctors  are  so  mysterious 
and  I  am  so  anxious  I  don't  know  whether  I  am 
too  mistrustful  or  whether  there  is  real  danger — 
but  there  is  some  trouble  about  her  eyes.  Is  this 
usual?  Is  it  likely  to  be  serious?  I  am  so  igno- 
rant, and  so  distressed." 

"  Poor  darling!  "  said  Frances,  wiping  her  eyes; 
and  though  she  did  not  designate,  they  knew  it 
was  her  boy  she  meant — her  eldest-born,  wrestling 
alone  with  unknown  terrors  by  the  side  of  the 
girl  he  had  sworn  to  cherish. 

After  a  few  moments  of  sympathetic  condo- 
lence, Felicity  slipped  away  to  put  her  fruit  and 
vegetables  on  the  ice  and  to  see  about  getting  the 
horse  stabled.  Vincent  followed  her.  Phemie 
and  the  cook  were  abed — folk  of  these  parts  went 
to  bed  with  the  birds,  it  seemed — and  these  two 

280 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

children  of  the  road  were  delighted  with  the  still- 
ness of  the  big  kitchen,  lighted  only  by  the  moon- 
rays  until  Felicity,  groping,  found  a  lamp. 

Before  she  lighted  it,  though,  Vincent  laid  down 
his  burden  of  goods  for  the  ice-box  and  caught  her 
to  him  in  a  boyishly  ardent  embrace. 

"  Look  out  for  the  lamp !  "  she  cried. 

"  Oh,  the  lamp  and  the  lobsters!  "  he  protested, 
"  and  our  manners  to  the  company,  and — and  all 
sorts  of  things !  Put  the  lamp  down,  Felicity  Fer- 
gus, and  tell  me  you're  happy  to-night." 

Without  releasing  her  he  led  her  toward  the 
kitchen  table  so  she  could  free  herself  of  the  lamp. 
Then,  held  close  against  him,  she  wound  her  arms 
about  his  neck  with  a  fervor  of  clinging,  and  laid 
her  face  against  his,  drooped  to  meet  it. 

'  Vincent,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "  I  feel  almost 
guilty — I'm  so  glad  to  get  away  from  those  dear 
people  and  their  sad  anxiety.  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted 
to  flee  away  from  all  the  sadness  in  the  world  and 
just  be  happy  with  you.  You'll  help  me  to  be 
happy,  won't  you?  I've  been  sad  so  much,  and 
worked  so  hard,  and  happy  is  the  one  thing  I've 
never  been.  You're  going  to  teach  me  to  be  happy, 
aren't  you?  You  won't  let  me  be  sad  any  more? 
People  seem  to  think  I  have  so  much  because  I 
have  fame  and  money  and  all  that.  But  I  always 
feel  there  isn't  anybody  alive  who  needs  so  much 
as  I  do — not  the  things  I've  got,  but  the  things  that 

281 


Felicity 

— that  elude  me.  Sometimes  I  say  to  myself  that 
I've  got  everything  in  the  world  that  I  don't  want ! 
But  that's  because  I'm  so  lonesome.  It's  going  to 
be  different,  now — isn't  it?  You  won't  let  me  be 
lonesome  any  more?" 

Vincent  was  awed  by  the  passion  of  her  low-toned 
plea.  Also,  he  was  intoxicated  by  the  sweetness 
of  her,  clinging  to  him  in  that  lovely  suppli- 
cation. It  did  not  seem  possible  he  could  ever  have 
had  any  doubt  about  wanting  her;  for  now  that 
she  was  his  he  had  an  almost  fierce  joy  in  the  pos- 
session of  her.  Why,  what  he  had  recoiled  from 
was  the  chance  of  being  that  unmanned  thing,  a 
consort  to  a  wife  who  had  need  of  nothing  he  could 
give  her;  and  here  was  the  wonderfully  different 
reality,  this  exquisite  "  child  within  his  arms  "  cry- 
ing out  to  him  for  her  happiness.  Nothing  in  his 
life  before  had  ever  so  moved  him,  and  his  voice 
was  choked  with  feeling  as  he  replied  to  her: 

"  God  help  me,  darling — I  will!  I  was  afraid 
I  hadn't  much  to  offer  you,  but  you — oh,  you  make 
me  so  happy.  I've  played  at  love  these  many 
years,  but  I  never  knew  there  was  anything  in  it 
like  this — anything  that  could  make  a  man  feel 
like  I  feel  now." 

After  they  had  lit  the  lamp  and  safely  bestowed 
the  perishables,  Felicity  constituted  herself  a  "  Lib- 
erty enlightening  the  world,"  as  she  said,  and  held 
aloft  her  little  beacon  for  Vincent  while  he  un- 

282 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

hitched  the  horse;  there  was  nothing  about  horses 
that  Vincent  did  not  know  and  delight  in. 

When  they  rejoined  the  Allstons,  sitting  on  the 
porch  overlooking  the  sea,  Felicity  announced  her 
engagement. 

44  Dear  people,"  she  said,  timidly,  tremulously, 
"  I  want  to  invite  you  all  to  my  wedding.  I  hope 
to  marry  Mr.  Delano  in  New  York,  early  in  Sep- 
tember— in  my  new  house,  if  I  have  one.  But 
please  keep  it  very  '  dark.'  I  want  it  to  be  as  quiet 
as  possible." 

Hie  next  few  days  were  quiet  ones.  The  All- 
stons tried  not  to  be  depressed  about  Morton,  but 
they  could  hardly  be  very  gay,  remembering  his 
anxiety.  There  was,  however,  no  occasion  for 
gayety.  It  was  tacitly  understood  that  Vincent  and 
Felicity  wanted  a  good  deal  of  each  other's  exclu- 
sive society,  and  the  Allstons  tactfully  made  this 
possible  for  their  hostess.  To  offset  it — that  Felic- 
ity might  not  feel  conscious  of  her  absorption  in 
one  guest — the  whole  party  sailed  every  day  for 
several  hours,  the  men  fishing,  sometimes  (with  Bill 
for  companion),  and  sometimes  taking  a  hand  at 
the  tiller  under  a  swart  sea-dog's  guidance.  They 
drove  often,  too,  and  went  each  morning  for  a  dip 
in  the  surf  and  a  sunning  on  the  beach.  Beyond 
these  things  there  was  really  nothing  to  do.  On 
the  Fourth  there  had  been  a  clambake  in  a  grove 

283 


Felicity 

some  miles  away,  and  they  had  all  gone.  On 
another  day,  their  sail  took  them  once  more  to 
Mr.  Jefferson's  new  home.  But  these  were  the 
only  "  events  "  that  marked  the  days. 

Felicity  was  wonderfully  content.  She  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  that  anxiousness  about  her  work, 
her  life,  for  the  coming  season,  which  had  fretted 
her  so,  and  to  look  forward  radiantly  to  the  future. 
Everything  in  her  prospect  was  changed  by  the 
promise  of  Vincent's  joyous  presence.  And  as  this 
mood  intensified,  she  grew  more  and  more  bewitch- 
ing to  Vincent,  who  marvelled  that  he  could  ever 
have  stood  hesitant  outside  this  happiness.  He 
was  intoxicated  with  the  charm  of  her  as  revealed 
to  him  in  their  new  relationship — with  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  dependence  on  him ;  with  the  magic  of 
her  smile ;  with  the  ardor  she  showed  to  be  happy 
as  he  was  happy,  with  what  the  moment  brought; 
with  the  thrill  of  her  touch,  the  caress  of  her 
hands  on  his  brow,  the  clinging  of  her  arms  about 
his  neck. 

Monday  morning,  early,  the  Allston  men  were 
to  take  the  stage  for  Fall  River.  A  second  letter 
from  Morton,  received  Saturday  night,  was  no  less 
disquieting  than  the  first,  and  all  day  Sunday, 
although  they  said  little  about  it  except  in  strictly 
family  conference,  the  three  Allstons  sat  in  the 
shadow  of  this  thing  that  impended  over  Morton. 
The  men  were  inclined  to  think,  hopefully,  that 

284 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

Sadie's  blindness  was  a  merely  temporary  feature 
of  that  crucial  experience  of  womankind  which,  in 
their  idea  of  it,  might  easily  comprehend  all  known 
terrors,  since  it  comprehended  so  many,  and  allow 
recovery  from  all,  since  it  allowed  recovery  from 
some  so  grave.  But  Frances  knew  better,  and  her 
anxiety  communicated  at  last  to  them,  and  the  three 
sat  talking  in  hushed  tones  of  what  poor  Morton 
would  do  if  this  awful  thing  came  to  pass. 

Felicity  knew  what  they  must  be  feeling,  and 
shunned  them  as  much  as  she  could. 

The  day  was  a  very  warm  one,  and  every  one 
in  the  Fair  View  household  spent  the  torrid  part 
of  the  mid-afternoon  in  an  attempt,  at  least,  at  a 
siesta.  About  five  o'clock,  Felicity  came  down 
stairs,  wearing  a  simple  little  white  gown  of  softest 
India  linen,  cut  slightly  low  at  the  neck  and  show- 
ing the  loveliness  of  her  throat  so  alluringly  that 
Vincent,  who  was  waiting  for  her  in  a  shady  cor- 
ner of  the  porch,  stooped,  when  he  rose  to  greet 
her,  and  kissed  her  where  the  line  of  beauty 
began  to  curve  upward  toward  her  chin.  He  was 
doubly  rewarded  for  this  little  bit  of  lover's 
daring,  by  the  exquisite  flush  which  mounted  to 
her  very  hair,  and  by  the  sweet  consciousness  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Felicity,"  he  whispered,  holding  her  close  to 
him  for  a  passionate  moment,  "  you  are  certainly 
the  loveliest  thing  alive!  And  what  keeps  me 

285 


Felicity 

astounded  is,  I  never  knew  you  were — were  like 
this,  until — well,  just  recently,  just  since  I  came 
down  here.  I've  always  thought  you  were  beauti- 
ful and  fascinating,  and  all  that,  but  I — I  could 
think  quite  calmly  about  you.  You've  never  been 
the  kind  of  woman — thank  God ! — that  sets  every 
man  crazy,  and  I  never  dreamed,  any  more  than 
the  rest  did,  I  suppose,  what  you  could  be  to  a 
man  if  you  loved  him." 

They  left  the  house  and  wandered  toward  the 
beach — aimless  as  to  direction  or  distance,  con- 
scious only  of  a  desire  to  be  by  themselves,  safe 
from  interruption.  Vincent  had  no  compunctions 
about  this,  so  long  as  they  were  polite  about  it. 
But  Felicity  felt  she  ought  to  give  more  of  herself 
to  the  Allstons — more  sympathy  and  more  effort 
to  divert  them. 

"  Vincent,  dear,"  she  said,  as  they  strolled  Har- 
bor-wards, "  I  feel  guilty  about  the  Allstons.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  almost  shunned  them  since  they 
have  been  feeling  so  sad  and  I  have  been  feeling 
so  glad.  But,  oh!  dear,  I've  been  sad  so  much, 
and  I  want  to  be  happy  now.  Nobody  ever  wanted 
to  be  happy  as  much  as  I  do !  You  keep  me  from 
thinking  about  sad  things;  when  I'm  with  you  I 
remember  only  the  happiness  of  the  moment.  I 
don't  want  to  be  selfish — but  I  guess  happiness 
always  makes  people  selfish " 

"  Felicity,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  roughness 

286 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

in  his  voice  which  she  knew  was  not  for  her,  but 
for  the  things  that  harassed  her,  "  you  listen  to 
me,  dear  girl:  You  owe  yourself  happiness;  you 
owe  it  to  the  public  that  delights  in  you.  The 
world  likes  happy  people,  needs  happy  people. 
There  are  too  many  folks  snuffling  through  this 
vale  of  tears.  Now,  you  make  up  your  mind  to 
be  happy.  Stop  looking  back  like  Mrs.  What's- 
her-name,  that  turned  to  a  pillar  of  salt.  Good 
idea! — that  of  the  salt;  I  never  thought  of  it 
before,  but  I  see  now  it  was  the  logical  outcome 
for  a  woman  who  wept  too  much  over  things  she 
couldn't  help  and  ought  to  have  left  behind  1  " 

Monday  morning,  after  the  stage  left,  Vincent 
began  to  grow  restless,  and  by  Tuesday  night  was 
possessed  of  but  one  desire :  to  get  away  from  West 
Harbor  Point  and  take  Felicity  with  him.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  there,  and  a  week  at  a  time  of 
doing  nothing  was  enough.  And  with  all  his  phi- 
losophy of  her  debt  to  herself  and  to  her  public,  he 
had  difficulty  in  persuading  Felicity  to  leave 
Frances  much  alone,  and  difficulty  in  making  her 
believe  she  was  happy  when  she  did  it. 

Mr.  Leffler  had  written  twice  urging  her  to  run 
up  to  New  York  for  a  day  or  two  and  look  at 
houses,  and  Vincent  felt  convinced  that  was  the 
thing  for  her  to  do.  He  would  get  her  to  town 
and  absorbed  in  house-furnishing.  And  even  in 

287 


Felicity 

July  there  was  plenty  to  do  in  New  York  for  recre- 
ation, when  one  tired  of  shopping. 

Accordingly,  he  proposed  that  they  go  by  Fri- 
day morning's  stage,  and  catch  the  one  o'clock 
train  from  Boston.  That  would  get  them  to  New 
York  in  time  for  dinner  and  afterwards  they  could 
slip  up  to  the  Casino  and  sit  a  while  on  the  roof 
garden.  Then,  Saturday  afternoon  they  could  go 
to  Manhattan  Beach,  where  Gilmore  played  and 
Pain's  fireworks  illumined  the  destruction  of  some- 
thing-or-other,  and — oh,  the  very  thought  of  it 
all  made  him  homesick. 

But  Felicity  needed  to  be  coaxed  into  the  notion, 
and  then  coaxed  into  believing  she  could  go  and 
leave  Frances.  She  was  happy  here,  with  Vincent 
— much  happier,  her  heart  told  her,  than  she  would 
be  in  New  York.  Then,  she  had  no  quarters  there, 
no  maid — she  had  let  Celeste  go  home  to  the 
Exposition,  on  full  pay — no  companion,  no  any- 
thing. She  would  go  up  some  day  in  midweek 
and  take  Frances  with  her,  but  she  could  not  go  and 
leave  her  guest  alone  for  days,  especially  now, 
when  she  was  so  anxious  about  poor  Sadie.  Why 
couldn't  Vincent  stay  quietly  there?  He  needed 
the  rest,  and  so  did  she,  and  they  would  proba- 
bly never  have  another  such  opportunity  to- 
gether. Their  honeymoon  would  have  to  be  full 
of  hard  work.  Ahead  of  them  stretched  long 
weeks  of  excitement,  of  constant  change  and  flurry. 

288 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

It  was  so  sweet  here,  the  sweetest  time  Felicity 
had  ever  known.  Why  couldn't  Vincent  be  con- 
tent? 

Vincent  couldn't,  though.  He  fretted,  and  his 
fretting  spoiled  her  peace.  In  her  dilemma — feel- 
ing she  must  go  and  wondering  how  she  should 
accomplish  it — she  appealed  to  Frances  and  had 
with  her,  one  day  when  Vincent  had  gone  fishing 
with  Bill,  their  first  real,  confidential  talk  since 
Vincent's  coming. 

They  were  sewing  on  the  side  porch  away  from 
the  morning  sun.  "  It  looks,"  said  Felicity,  with 
fine  appearance  of  being  casual,  "  as  if  I'd  have  to 
run  up  to  New  York  for  a  few  days.  I  have  to 
look  at  houses  and  see  about  furnishings,  and  cable 
over  for  a  lot  of  French  trousseau  stuff,  and  do  a 
heap  o'  things.  This  deciding  to  get  married," 
she  explained,  with  pretty  confusion,  "  changes  the 
outlook  a  good  deal  for  me." 

Yes,  Frances  could  readily  see  that  it  must. 
Also,  it  was  no  secret  to  her,  though  she  said 
nothing  about  it,  that  Vincent  was  restless  and, 
doubtless,  urging  Felicity  away.  Frances  won- 
dered at  Felicity  a  good  deal,  of  late.  But  she 
urged  her  to  go,  of  course,  saying  she  should  not 
mind  being  alone. 

But,  no !  Felicity  would  not  hear  to  her  being 
alone.  She  must  have  some  one  here  to  visit  her 
for  a  week.  Frances  did  not  want  any  one  to  visit 

289 


Felicity 


her  for  a  week;  she  did  not  feel  like  entertaining 
any  one  and  would  far  rather  have  been  alone, 
when  her  men-folks  were  not  there.  But  she  saw 
that  only  on  the  terms  that  satisfied  her  would 
Felicity  rest  content,  and  so  promised  to  think  up 
some  woman  friend  who  would  be  likely  to  make 
hurried  preparations  and  rush  to  her  on  short 
notice.  Frances  smiled,  with  all  her  secret  annoy- 
ance, to  think  how  her  father  would  have  loved 
the  humanness  of  this  situation,  how  whimsically 
conscious  he  would  have  been  of  the  times  he  had 
done  a  like  thing. 

"  Then,"  said  Felicity,  feeling,  somehow,  not 
quite  satisfied,  "  I've  been  thinking  that  probably, 
when  Morton's  wife  gets  a  little  stronger,  he'll 
want  to  take  her  away  from  sweltering  Chicago 
for  a  change.  And  I  want  you  to  offer  them  Fair 
View  for  as  long  as  they'll  stay  here,  with  you  and 
me.  Probably  a  month  by  the  sea  will  quite  restore 
poor  little  Sadie." 

Frances  was  grateful  for  this  offer,  really  grate- 
ful, though  she  was  shrewdly  aware  to  what  she 
owed  it,  in  part  at  least.  She  would  write  Morton 
today,  she  said,  and  whether  they  could  come  or 
not,  she  knew  how  they  would  appreciate  the 
invitation. 

;'  Then  I  must  wire  Mr.  Leffler  today  to  hire 
hotel  quarters  for  me  and  to  engage  me  a  maid  for 
a  week." 

290 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

"Will  Mr.  Delano  come  back  with  you?" 
asked  Frances. 

Felicity  did  not  know.  "  He  may,"  she  said, 
"  or  he  may  run  up  to  Saratoga  or  somewhere  else 
where  it's  livelier.  We're  a  bit  slow,  down  here, 
for  Vincent.  He's  been  used  to  so  much  that's 
rip-roaring,  all  his  life,  that  he  can't  adjust  himself 
to  our  quiet." 

"  But  you  don't  tire  of  it?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.    I  love  it." 

"  Being  used  to  the  quiet  life,  eh?  " 

Felicity  laughed.  "  Well,  some  folks  like  quiet 
for  a  change,  and  some  don't.  The  Old  Man 
didn't,  you  know.  He  wouldn't  have  stayed  here 
a  week  without  getting  restless !  " 

Frances  wondered  if  Felicity  saw  no  difference 
between  her  father's  restlessness  and  Vincent 
Delano's.  She  even  resented  the  coupling  of  their 
names  in  this  way.  Vincent  was  a  nice  enough 
fellow,  but  it  was  a  kind  of  blasphemy  to  draw  any 
parallel  between  him  and  that  Old  Man  who  en- 
riched life  so  infinitely  for  all  who  knew  him. 
Frances  was  so  accustomed  to  thinking  of  her 
father  and  to  hearing  him  spoken  of  as  "  a 
man,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  I  shall  not  look 
upon  his  like  again,"  that  Adams  said  she  could 
never  hear  Hamlet  so  describe  his  father  to  Hora- 
tio without  feeling  that  he  plagiarized  her  senti- 
ments. 

291 


Felicity 


"  Father's  restlessness  was — different,"  she  said, 
a  little  stiffly. 

Felicity's  eyes  filled.  "  Oh,  don't  I  know  it!  " 
she  cried,  and  her  voice  had  a  quaver  in  it.  She 
laid  down  her  sewing,  went  over  to  Frances  and, 
sitting  on  the  porch  step  at  her  feet,  laid  her  head 
in  the  elder  woman's  lap. 

"  I  haven't  any  mother,"  she  said,  plaintively, 
"  nor  Aunt  Elie,  nor  a  soul  to  talk  to  about  the 
biggest  step  in  my  life.  If  The  Old  Man  were 
here  I'd  talk  to  him  soonest  of  all,  but  he  isn't — 
not  as  I  want  him,  all  alive.  Some  of  the  things 
he  said  are  a  help  to  me  now,  as  things  he  said 
nearly  always  come  to  me  to  help  me  when  I  need 
him.  But  I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  wanted  him  as 
I  do  now.  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  under- 
stand, but  perhaps  you  can.  You  see,  I've  been 
so  lonesome " 

"  Yes,  I  can  understand  that." 

"And  I — I  guess  I'm  queer;  I've  led  a  queer 
life.  I  fell  in  love  with  Vincent,  in  a  silly,  little, 
sighing-sixteen  way,  when  I  was  just  a  child;  and 
while  I  don't  imagine,  now,  it  was  real  love,  or 
anything  like  it,  I  thought  it  was,  then,  and  there 
was  something  about  the  sentimentality  of  it  that 
seemed  to  fill  my  need  and  keep  me  from  hunting 
other  vents  while  I  slaved  at  my  profession.  I 
wonder  if  you  understand  me  now?  If  you  can 
see  how  I  don't  make  light  of  that  fancied  love 

292 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

of  mine?  Next  to  The  Old  Man  and  to  Aunt 
Elie's  devotion,  I  feel  I  owe  it  more  than  I  owe 
anything  else  in  the  world.  I  didn't  know  anything 
about  Vincent  in  those  days;  I  thought  of  him  as 
a  kind  of  god.  But  I  know  enough,  now,  to  know 
that  that  isn't  so  foolish  as  it  sounds.  Real  love 
is  just  as  subjective,  I  guess — has  just  as  little  to 
do  with  the  lovableness  of  the  object  and  every- 
thing to  do  with  the  subject's  need  of  loving.  I 
used  to  sleep  with  Vincent's  picture  and  letters 
under  my  pillow — when  I  had  a  pillow! — and 
carry  them  inside  my  dress  by  day.  When  my 
ardor  to  be  a  great  actress  lagged — and  I  tell  you, 
it  took  imagination,  in  those  days,  to  believe  in 
greatness,  to  believe  that  it  existed  anywhere,  let 
alone  for  me;  if  I  hadn't  known  The  Old  Man  I'd 
have  lost  my  belief,  I'm  sure — but  when  my  ardor 
lagged,  as  I  say — and  not  even  The  Old  Man's 
hope  for  me  was  enough  to  keep  it  from  faintness 
— I  could  always  whip  it  up  with  remembering 
Vincent.  When  I  began  to  stoop  a  little,  and  Aunt 
Elie  was  terrified  for  fear  I'd  get  round-shoul- 
dered, I  drew  up  a  kind  of  solemn,  secret  document, 
swearing  to  '  strive  for  a  beautiful  form  for  his 
sake,'  and  wore  it  in  a  little  bag  tied  round  my 
neck.  Oh,  they  were  delicious  years,  those,  with 
all  their  toil  and  privations  and  heartbreaks,  and 
their  rosy,  rosy  dreams!  Often,  I  think  I'd  give 
all  I've  got  to  go  back  and  live  them  over  again. 

293 


Felicity 

But  I  couldn't — not  if  I  had  all  the  world  to  give 
— and  I  suppose  I  wouldn't,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  if 
it  came  to  a  test.  There  never  could  be  any  test, 
though,"  she  went  on,  reflectively,  "  because,  even 
if  I  could  give  up  all  that  success  has  brought 
to  me,  I  couldn't  give  up  with  it  my  knowledge 
of  how  little  success  satisfies.  And  so  the  working 
and  the  dreaming  could  never  be  the  same  again, 
because  I  could  never  imagine  again  that  the  thing 
I  was  dreaming  of  and  working  for  would  make 
me  happy  when  I  had  it.  Oh,  the  beautiful,  beauti- 
ful years  when  I  believed  that  happiness  lay  just 
ahead!  And  always  Vincent  was  not  only  in  it, 
but  the  cause  of  it.  I  said  I  must  be  great  for  his 
sake.  I  never  suspected,  though  I'd  often  heard 
The  Old  Man  say  so,  that  no  man  ever  loved  a 
woman  for  her  fame  or  her  achievements — that 
love  can't  be  bought  even  by  honest  worth,  but 
comes  oftenest  to  succor,  never  to  batten  on  suc- 
cess. I  know,  now!  I  know  that  my  fame  has 
cost  me  love,  instead  of  bringing  it  to  me." 

Frances  was  so  astonished  at  this  admission  that 
a  little  gasp  of  surprise  escaped  her.  Felicity 
looked  up  into  her  face  and  smiled,  through  her 
tears. 

"Oh,  you  didn't  understand!"  she  cried,  "I 
knew  you  couldn't.  Nobody  could,  except  The 
Old  Man!  He'd  know!  He  said  it  was  sheer 
churlishness  to  refuse  everything  because  you  can't 

294 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

have  what  you  want  most.  He  said  great  spirits 
never  had  what  they  wanted — that  they  wouldn't 
have  been  great  spirits  if  they  could  get  what 
they  wanted! — and  that  they  always  did  the  best 
they  could  with  what  Fate  allowed  them.  He 
said  the  world  is  full  o'  folks  doing  the  best  they 
can — not  what  they  want  to  do,  but  what  they  can 
— and  that  he  wouldn't  wish  to  live  unless  he 
could  know  he  belonged  to  that  valorous  army! 
He — oh,  he  would  have  understood  me  if  I'd 
confessed  to  him  that  I  don't  think  Vincent  is  a 
god — any  more.  He  wouldn't  be  shocked  because 
I'm  not  blind  with  love,  not  expecting  perfect 
happiness — but  just  lonely,  intolerably  lonely,  and 
tired  of  my  awful  wishfulness.  I'm  fond  of  Vin- 
cent, very  fond  of  him,  a  little  for  what  he  is — 
for  his  care-freeness,  his  joy  in  living,  his  personal 
charm — and  a  great  deal  for  what  he  has  been  to 
me.  I  love  him  for  what  the  ideal  of  him  was  to 
that  girl  I  used  to  be!  More  of  my  tenderest 
recollections  are  bound  up  with  him  than  with 
anybody  else  alive.  I  couldn't  begin  now,  with 
my  sad  world-wisdom,  to  build  about  a  demigod 
such  visions  as  I  built  about  Vincent  long  ago. 
And  no  other  man  has  ever  appealed  to  me  for  a 
moment.  I've  dreamed  of  another,  dreamed  a 
good  deal  more  than  was  good  for  me  of  a  possi- 
ble man  who  might  come  into  my  life  and  irradiate 
it,  with  understanding  of  me  and  wisdom  far 

295 


Felicity 


beyond  mine,  as  The  Old  Man  irradiated  my 
youth,  as  the  memory  of  him  irradiates  every  day 
I  live.  But  no  man  I  ever  saw  seemed  the  least 
likely  to  do  this,  and  I've  needed  companionship 
so,  I  think  perhaps  I've  been  wrong  to  hold  out 
for  it  on  my  own  terms — that  I  ought  to  take  it, 
and  be  grateful  for  it,  on  the  terms  Fate  offers 
me.  I  thought  of  this  the  other  morning,  when 
Vincent  said  what  he  did  about  Bill — about  every- 
body missing  something  as  he  missed  having  a  boy 
like  Bill,  but  everybody  doing  the  best  he  can, 
notwithstanding.  Somehow,  I  loved  Vincent  for 
that  admission  as  I'd  never  loved  the  real  Vincent 
before,  and  when  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  I 
said  I  would,  and  determined  to  be  as  happy  as 
circumstance  allows.  Tell  me  you're  not  shocked," 
she  pleaded,  searching  Frances'  face  for  under- 
standing sympathy.  "  I  know  this  isn't  what  they 
call  love  in  the  books  and  plays,  but  as  nearly  as 
I  can  make  out  it's  what  most  people  have  to 
make  shift  with." 

"  I  think  it  is,"  said  Frances,  quietly — almost  to 
herself,  or  to  a  confessor,  and  not  to  a  questioner 
— and  yet  with  that  in  her  voice  which  told  Felic- 
ity all  she  wanted  to  know  about  this  one  other 
woman,  at  least. 

It  seemed  to  do  Felicity  a  world  of  good  to  free 
her  mind  in  this  way.  Things  looked  less  involved 
when  one  could  talk  about  them,  and  everybody 

296 


Fame  Frightens  Love 

knows  it  is  easier  to  plead  for  one's  self  before 
the  most  difficult  second  person  than  before  that 
alter  ego  at  whose  bar  we  are  always  trying  our 
case. 

Frances  wondered,  as  she  listened,  if  Felicity 
had  no  sense  of  being  married  for  her  money,  her 
fame,  for  what  she  could  give.  But  that  preying 
distrust  of  small  minds  had  never  fastened  itself 
upon  Felicity  Fergus.  She  had  not  even — so  ab- 
sorbed was  she  in  analyzing  her  own  attitude  toward 
this  thing  she  was  about  to  do — reflected  on  what 
people  in  general  would  probably  say  of  it.  Frances 
knew  the  interpretation  many  would  put  on  Vin- 
cent's initiative;  she  could  hardly  conjecture  what 
they  would  say  of  Felicity's  acquiescence. 

"  Have  you  told  him  all  this?  "  she  asked,  nod- 
ding toward  Vincent,  who,  with  Bill  by  his  side, 
was  waving  to  them  from  the  beach. 

"  Mercy,  no !  "  laughed  Felicity,  "  Vincent's  not 
a  hair-splitting  person;  he  wouldn't  understand.'* 


297 


CHAPTER    XIX 

"  THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  SUCCESS  " 

:  T  DON'T  suppose  you've  changed  your  mind 
A  about  going  to  Mt.  Auburn?  " 

Felicity  had  opened  the  door  of  her  husband's 
room  ever  so  softly  and,  finding  him  awake,  put 
her  question.  It  was  Decoration  Day,  the  spring 
after  her  marriage,  and  they  were  playing  in  Bos- 
ton. The  Old  Man  lay  at  rest  in  Mt.  Auburn, 
and  the  night  before  Felicity  had  announced  her 
intention  of  going  over  in  the  morning,  before  the 
crowds  got  there,  to  decorate  his  grave;  and  had 
asked  Vincent  to  go  with  her. 

"  Oh,  Felicity,"  he  had  pleaded,  remonstrant, 
"  why  do  you  think  up  such  uncomfortable  things 
to  do?  You  know  I'm  not  keen  about  graveyards 
at  any  time,  and  at  ten  in  the  morning,  dearest,  I 
couldn't  get  up  a  reverent  thought  for  any  one  that 
ever  lived." 

This  morning  when  she  opened  his  door  and 
found  him  awake,  he  made  haste  to  bury  his  head 
in  a  pillow  and  simulate  such  sound-asleepness  as 
would  have  done  credit  to  Rip  Van  Winkle.  Felic- 
ity went  to  him  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed?"  she  said — proper 
298 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

reproach  lost  in  the  laughter  his  comically  elabo- 
rate feint  inspired. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed?"  he  retaliated,  "coming 
in  here  and  waking  me  out  of  my  beauty  sleep!  " 

"  You  weren't  asleep !  " 

"  I  was  just  trying  to  get  to  sleep.  Why,  it's 
no  more  than  a  decent  bedtime;  I'm  just  in." 

"  It's  nine  o'clock;  you  came  in  at  half-past 
three — I  heard  you." 

Vincent  abandoned  his  feint.  "  You  lie  awake 
half  the  night,"  he  charged,  "  and  yet,  when  I 
want  you  to  stay  out  after  the  show,  you  say  you're 
tired  and  must  get  your  rest." 

It  was  an  old  controversy  now,  and  Felicity 
always  avoided  it  if  she  could.  She  leaned  over 
and  kissed  him  by  way  of  silencing,  and  Vincent 
reached  an  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to  him  in 
a  fervor  of  fondness  she  seldom  failed  to  excite 
in  him,  when  he  was  with  her. 

"  It's  a  glorious  morning,"  she  said,  sugges- 
tively. 

"  It  was  a  bully  evening,"  he  answered, 
laughing. 

"  At  Bullfinch  Place?" 

"  Yes.  Fine  crowd  out  last  night.  Never  sat 
at  a  livelier  table." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  had  a  nice  time,"  she 
said,  without  irony. 

"  And  I  hope  you'll  have  a  nice  time  at  your 
299 


Felicity 

graveyard,"  he  returned.  "  I'd  go  with  you,  dear- 
est, if  it  wasn't  so  beastly  early — much  as  I  dislike 
bury  ing-grounds.  But  you  wouldn't  enjoy  my  com- 
pany if  I  did  go.  I'm  not  charming  at  nine  in  the 
morning — it  may  be  hard  to  believe,  but  I'm  not, 
really.  I'm  much  more  myself  at  three — but  at 
three  you're  never  up  to  see  me.  Why,"  delight- 
edly, as  this  whimsicality  shaped  itself  in  his  mind, 
"  you'll  live  and  die,  my  darling,  and  never  know 
how  much  you  might  have  thought  of  me  if  you 
hadn't  insisted  on  sleeping  when  I'm  just  waked 
up,  and  waking  when  I've  just  gone  to  sleep.  You 
have  no  idea  the  funny  things  I  can  think  of  at 
2  A.M. — the  witty  anecdotes  I'm  reminded  of,  the 
— 'the  general,  all-round  delightfulness  of  me  when 
the  milk  carts  begin  to  rattle  by!  " 

"  Owl !  "  she  chided,  shaking  her  head. 

"Lark!"  he  retorted,  gayly,  adding:  "I  do 
think,  though,  you  might  have  called  me  a  night- 
ingale. It  would  have  been  so  much  more — well, 
polite — not  to  say  truthful!  " 

There  was  no  use  pleading  with  Vincent,  and 
less  use  getting  out  of  patience  with  him.  Vin- 
cent was — Vincent !  One  could  not  blame  him  for 
being  himself — least  of  all  could  Felicity,  who 
had  married  him  knowing  full  well  what  he  was, 
and  who  was  too  honest  with  herself  and  with 
him  to  reproach  him  for  not  changing  when  she 
had  declared  she  did  not  expect  him  to  change. 

300 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

So  she  kissed  him  again  and  left  him  to  his 
"  beauty  sleep,"  avowing  that  nothing  could  induce 
her  to  interfere  with  what  he  needed  so  much. 

"  By  Jove,  dearest !  "  he  told  her,  "  it's  evident 
enough  that  nobody  ever  interfered  with  yours. 
You  look  like  a  flower,  this  minute — like  a  June 
rose." 

'  June  roses  aren't  pretty  yet — it's  only  May," 
she  called  back  to  him  as  she  left.  But  the  com- 
pliment pleased  her.  Vincent  always  had  a  way 
of  retrieving  his  deficiencies  with  his  charm. 

When  Felicity  had  breakfasted  and  gone  down- 
stairs, she  debated  for  a  few  moments  as  to  whether 
she  would  get  a  carriage  or  go  out  to  Mt.  Auburn 
by  the  Cambridge  car  that  passed  the  door  of  the 
hotel  and  took  one  to  the  cemetery  gate.  The 
carriage  would  be  a  nuisance  while  she  was  wander- 
ing from  place  to  place,  so  she  decided  in  favor  of 
the  car  and,  emerging  from  the  Parker  House  with 
her  big  box  of  flowers,  she  took  up  her  stand  on  the 
curb  across  Tremont  Street  and  waited  for  her  car. 

She  was  quite  at  home  in  the  beautiful  ceme- 
tery; it  had  been  a  favorite  loitering  place  of  The 
Old  Man's  in  the  long  ago  days  when  few  of  the 
illustrious  that  later  made  it  a  pilgrims'  shrine  were 
numbered  with  the  great  majority.  She  had  gone 
with  him  many  times  to  Charlotte  Cushman's 
grave,  had  climbed  with  him  to  the  slope  whereon 
lay  Booth's  dear  Mary  Devlin,  had  stood  before 

301 


Felicity 


the  stone  memorial  to  poor,  drowned  Margaret 
Fuller. 

They  had  stopped  sometimes  on  these  visits  at 
Craigie  House  and  at  Elmwood.  Once,  during 
one  of  Felicity's  vacations  from  "  the  frontier," 
they  had  spent  a  day  at  Concord  and  gone  to  Sleepy 
Hollow  where  Hawthorne  and  Thoreau  and 
Emerson  and  other  great  men  lie ;  and  it  had  been 
a  charming  day,  but  not  like  other  days  in  Pere 
la  Chaise  and  Kensal  Green  and  the  Protestant 
Cemetery  at  Rome,  and  the  unkempt  churchyard 
at  Edmonton.  The  great  men  of  letters  in  New 
England's  glory  time  were  seceders,  all,  from  the 
grim  Puritanism  that  had  held  their  fathers  thrall, 
but  they  were  not  much  given  to  association  with 
actor-folk.  The  Old  Man  had  never  known  them 
well,  as  he  had  known  Washington  Irving  and 
poor,  wild  Edgar  Poe  and  men  of  another  sort 
than  the  sage  of  Concord  and  "  the  white  Mr. 
Longfellow  " ;  had  never  known  any  of  them  as 
he  knew  Charles  Dickens,  and  Thackeray,  and 
Balzac,  and  George  Sand — none  at  all  as  he  knew 
the  Kembles  and  the  Keans  and  the  Jeffersons  and 
his  fellows  of  the  road. 

But  he  had  always  loved  Mt.  Auburn  and  had 
chosen  the  sunny  slope  where  he  wanted  to  lie. 
Felicity  came  here  a  great  deal,  when  she  was  in 
Boston.  Everything  about  it  appealed  to  her — 
the  quiet,  the  beauty,  the  sacredness  of  association 

302 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

with  that  memory  which,  as  she  said,  irradiated 
her  life. 

This  morning  it  was  glorious  in  the  golden  sun- 
light; the  wine-sweet  air  of  May  was  intoxicating, 
and  the  full-throated  choristers  of  the  feathered 
choir  were  carolling  as  if  the  brilliance  and  the 
fragrance  had  gone  to  their  heads  and  made  them 
mad — mad  with  the  joy  of  living.  Flags  fluttered 
on  a  multitude  of  graves  holding  soldier  dead; 
flowers  were  everywhere.  The  vivid  fresh  greens 
of  spring  had  not  yet  taken  on  any  of  the  tones 
of  summer.  In  this  city  of  the  dead,  even  on 
Memorial  Day,  it  was  hard  to  think  of  anything 
but  Life,  but  promise,  but  the  constant  renewal  of 
vigor  that  the  old  world  sees. 

On  her  way  to  The  Old  Man's  grave  Felicity 
passed  Mary  Booth's  and  here,  if  she  had  flowers, 
she  always  stopped  to  leave  a  few,  for  love  of 
the  great  tragedian  whose  heart  had  broken  when 
this  girl-wife  was  buried  here. 

This  morning  as  she  neared  the  Booth  plot  she 
saw  a  woman  there,  and  was  about  to  pass  without 
stopping  when  the  woman  rose  and  she  saw  it  was 
Clorinda  Detmar. 

Clorinda  was  playing  a  small  part  in  Felicity's 
company  that  season,  and  thereby  hung  a  tale. 
For  when  Felicity  had  gone  to  New  York  in  July, 
at  Vincent's  urging,  part  of  her  reluctance  to  go 
had  been — though  she  but  half  confessed  it  to 

303 


Felicity 


herself — on  account  of  Clorinda.  That  news- 
paper account  of  the  restaurant  row  had  not  been 
forgotten  when  Felicity  promised  to  marry  Vin- 
cent— it  was  only  one  of  the  things  she  had  chosen, 
to  overlook.  When  he  grew  restless  for  New 
York  she  had  flinched  before  what  she  felt  sure 
was  coming.  There  was  a  great  deal  in  New 
York  for  Vincent  and  she  could  not  hope,  even 
in  the  first  flush  of  their  engagement,  to  be  more 
than  a  considerable  part  of  it.  He  might  always 
think  her  the  most  charming  of  women — but  he 
would  always  be  interested,  too,  in  other  kinds  of 
charm;  Felicity  knew  too  much  about  human 
nature  not  to  know  that.  But  this  Clo  Detmar? 
Somehow,  though  she  thought  she  had  reconciled 
herself  to  Vincent's  other  fancies  in  general,  she 
found  herself  balking  at  this  first  experience  in 
particular.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  keep  him 
isolate  by  the  sea  all  that  brief  summer  if  she  could. 
But  she  could  not.  And  it  was  mere  chance  that 
threw  Clorinda  across  their  path  at  Manhattan 
Beach  one  night  and  made  the  whole  story  clear 
to  Felicity,  who,  in  her  unconfessed  gratefulness 
to  have  Vincent  put  in  this  heroic  light,  declared 
her  wish  to  give  Clorinda  a  place  in  her  company 
if  she  desired  it — which,  of  course,  Clorinda  did, 
as  she  was  very  nigh  desperation. 

"  It's  sheer  nonsense  for  me,"  Felicity  had  told 
herself  that  night  before  she  went  to  sleep,  "  to 

3°4 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

begin  being  afraid  of  Vincent  now!  If  he's  going 
to  stray,  he'll  stray;  I  can't  keep  him,  if  I  lock  him 
in  a  safe !  I'll  give  that  poor  girl  another  chance, 
and  if  Vincent  shows  himself  faithless — why,  he'd 
have  done  it  anyway,  no  doubt." 

But  Vincent  did  not,  and  Felicity,  who  felt  her- 
self a  very  philosophical  person  indeed,  grew  quite 
interested  in  Clorinda — what  little  she  saw  of  her. 
It  was  a  surprise,  though,  to  find  her  here. 

'  You,  here !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  recognized 
Clorinda. 

"  My  mother's  buried  in  Mt.  Auburn,"  Clo- 
rinda explained,  "  and  when  I'm  here  I  always 
come  to  this  grave,  too,  and  lay  a  flower  on  it  for 
his  sake.  He's  a  saint !  "  she  cried,  with  sudden 
passion.  "  I  played  in  his  company  during  the 
worst  of  my  trouble — only  little  parts — I  was  no- 
body and  he  was  the  greatest  living — but  he  was 
so  sweet  and  kind  to  me !  " 

"  He's  sweet  and  kind  to  everybody,"  said  Felic- 
ity, "  I  love  him,  too,  and  always  come  here  for 
his  sake." 

So,  talking  of  Booth  in  the  ardor  of  affection 
with  which  his  fellow-players  always  speak  of  him, 
they  came  away,  leaving,  each,  her  little  tribute  to 
him  on  the  grave  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

Felicity  would  rather  have  gone  alone  to  The 
Old  Man's,  but  when  Clorinda  said  she  was  bound 
thither,  too,  Felicity  had  not  the  heart  to  regret 

305 


Felicity 

her  company.  She  knew  how  The  Old  Man  would 
have  liked  being  remembered  with  affection  by  this 
poor,  ill-used  girl  who  had  once  played  a  minor 
part  with  him.  Clorinda  had  brought  a  blossom 
or  two  for  him  also,  and  she  laid  them  with  the 
wealth  of  bloom  Felicity  had  brought. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  do  that !  "  Felicity  said, 
with  enthusiasm.  "  I'm  so  jealous  of  his  fame  that 
I  can't  understand  how  any  man,  woman,  or  child 
can  come  in  here  and  not  bring  a  flower  for  him. 
They  must  all — not  the  children,  perhaps,  but  all 
the  men  and  women — have  got  more  joy  out  of 
living  because  he  lived;  he  must  have  made  them 
smile  many  a  time  when  their  hearts  were  heavy. 
I  almost  hate  them  for  seeming  to  forget  it !  " 

"  People  forget  all  their  debts,"  said  Clorinda, 
bitterly,  "  everything  except  their  grievances." 

Then  it  flashed  on  Felicity  how  The  Old  Man, 
had  he  been  here,  would  never  have  lei  poor  Clo- 
rinda go  back  to  her  lonely  struggle  again  with- 
out trying,  in  his  sweet,  whimsical,  wise  way,  to 
give  her  a  kindlier  opinion  of  the  human  family. 
That  was  his  great  gift — if  it  were  possible  to  dif- 
ferentiate among  so  many — one  always  came  away 
from  him  with  a  better  feeling  for  "  folks,"  as 
he  loved  to  call  them.  "  Folks  is  folks,"  he  had 
been  wont  to  say,  "  more  alike  than  the  unwise 
person  suspects.  Don't  you  go  charging  any  sins 
against  the  human  family  that  you're  not  willing 

306 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

to  own  up  to  having  yourself,  for  there's  none  of 
us  peculiar  unless  there's  something  wrong  about 
him.  If  we're  all  right,  we're  pretty  much  like 
the  rest  o'  folks." 

Felicity  remembered  this  now,  and  checked  on 
her  very  lips  an  answer  to  Clorinda's  bitter  charge. 
How  to  contradict  it,  though,  with  anything  like 
the  uncensorious  wisdom  of  The  Old  Man ! 

Like  most  unfortunate  people,  Clorinda  was 
defiant.  She  carried  always  with  her  that  little  air 
which  holds  at  bay  a  great  deal  of  kindliness  along 
with  the  pity  it  is  assumed  against.  Felicity  felt 
this  in  her  every  encounter  with  Clorinda,  and  was 
none  too  patient  with  it.  She  would  have  been 
amazed  and  indignant  could  she  have  known  how 
she,  more  than  almost  anybody  else  in  the  world, 
excited  this  bridling  in  Clorinda. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  began,  a  little  primly,  for 
all  her  good  intentions,  "  perhaps  we  oughtn't 
to  blame  them.  People  are  pretty  kind,  pretty 
faithful.  Look  around  you !  Every  grave,  almost, 
tells  a  story  of  loving  remembrance." 

"  Oh,"  retorted  Clorinda,  lapsing  into  coarse- 
ness of  tone  and  manner  with  the  sudden  flaming 
of  her  always-smouldering  grievance,  "  you  can 
talk !  you're  on  the  top  of  everything;  what  do  you 
know  about  people  ?  They  all  scrape  and  bow 
down  to  you.  Wait  till  you've  asked  favors  of 
them!" 

307 


Felicity 


There  was  a  note  of  vindictive  prophecy  in  her 
voice,  as  if  she  foresaw  the  inevitableness  of  Felic- 
ity's bitter  knowledge,  and  rejoiced  in  it.  Felicity 
looked  at  her,  across  The  Old  Man's  grave,  in 
astonishment;  Clorinda  met  the  look  defiantly,  and 
a  deep  red  began  to  burn  in  Felicity's  cheeks. 

"  You — you  don't  like  me,"  she  said,  slowly, 
feeling  it  a  charge  and  suggesting  as  much  by  her 
manner. 

Clorinda  looked  as  if  she  could  have  flashed 
back  an  immediate  assent  to  the  charge,  but  was 
mindful  of  Felicity's  grasp  on  the  purse-strings  of 
her  present  comfort,  and  forbore.  She  laughed, 
the  mirthless  laugh  of  one  who  seeks  to  gain  time 
for  making  up  a  doubtful  mind.  Then  the  accusa- 
tion in  Felicity's  manner  outweighed  all  considera- 
tions of  prudence  and  she  replied : 

"I  don't.    Why  should  I?" 

Felicity  gasped  under  the  frank  brutality  of  Clo- 
rinda's  bearing.  "  I've  never  injured  you,"  she 
said,  "  I've  done  you  every  kindness  I  could.  Why 
should  you  dislike  me?  " 

"  Well,  to  be  honest  with  you — which  hardly 
any  one  is,  I  guess — it's  your  success  I  don't  like, 
I  suppose.  We  never  like  success — we  who 
haven't  got  it.  We  may  pretend  friendship  for 
fortunate  people,  but  we're  always  tickled  sick  to 
see  'em  tumble.  Why  should  I  like  you?  You 
have  everything;  I  have  nothing.  'Tain't  fair!  " 

308 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

"  Clorinda  Detmar,"  said  Felicity,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "  is  it  possible  you  haven't  any 
better  sense  than  that?  Can  you,  a  grown  woman, 
with  some  experience  of  life,  be  so  foolish  as  not 
to  know  that  things  are  evened  up  pretty  well, 
somehow?  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  pay  dear  for 
everything  I  get?  And  don't  you  ever  suspect  that 
when  I've  got  it,  I'm  so  exhausted  with  paying  the 
price  that  I  can't  enjoy  the  purchase?  More  than 
half  the  time  I  hate  the  things  I  can't  stop  striving 
for — didn't  you  ever  guess  that?  " 

"No,  I  never  did;  nobody  ever  does,  that  I 
know  of,  and  nobody'll  ever  believe  you  do,  not 
if  you  swear  to  it.  You're  quick  to  tell  us  that 
are  down  an'  out  that  the  things  you  have  aren't 
worth  anything.  But  you  never  offer  us  the  chance 
to  find  out  for  ourselves  whether  we  like  those 
things  or  not;  you  expect  us  to  take  your  word 
for  it — and  let  you  keep  the  soft  things !  " 

What  use  to  ask  poor,  impassioned  Clorinda 
how  it  might  be  possible  for  Felicity  to  hand  over 
to  her  for  a  trial  of  its  benefits  that  eminence  to 
which  years  of  incredible  toil  had  brought  her? 
What  use  to  reply  at  all  to  such  an  outburst?  It 
was  a  bitterness  as  old  as  the  world,  as  old  as  the 
hate  that  inspired  the  first  murder.  But  the  injus- 
tice of  it! 

Silence  fell  between  these  two  women  so  un- 
able to  make  themselves  clear  to  one  another. 

309 


Felicity 


Then  Clorinda  said,  with  a  harsh,  forced  little 
laugh : 

"  I  s'pose  I'm  as  good  as  fired  for  my  frank- 
ness." 

Felicity  looked  at  her,  first  in  surprise,  then  in 
contempt.  '  That  also  shows,"  she  said,  proudly, 
"  how  little  you  understand  me." 

Clorinda  turned  to  go.  Felicity's  manner,  inti- 
mating that  it  was  of  not  the  least  consequence  to 
her  whether  Clo  Detmar  liked  or  disliked  her,  net- 
tled the  unfortunate  woman  more  than  anything 
else  could  have  done.  "  You  think  I'm  queer," 
she  said,  "  but  I'm  not;  there  are  heaps  of  people 
like  me." 

It  was  a  chance  remark,  intended  as  a  parting 
shot,  not  of  vindication — Clo  did  not  care,  espe- 
cially, to  vindicate  herself — but  of  irritation ;  some- 
thing to  rankle  after  she  was  gone,  and  disturb  this 
Felicity  Fergus  for  a  long  time  to  come.  But  it 
shot  straight  to  a  mark  Clo  never  dreamed  of,  and 
immediately  Felicity's  personal  interest  merged  in 
her  passionate  general  interest,  her  understanding 
of  character. 

It  was  of  trifling  moment,  anyway,  what  this 
particular  woman  thought  of  her  as  a  particular 
woman.  But  Clo  had  never  seen  anything  like 
the  avidity  with  which  Felicity  took  her  up  on 
that  declaration  of  there  being  "  heaps  of  people  " 
like  her  in  the  hatred  of  success.  Felicity  had 

310 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

worked  slavishly  hard  for  her  success,  had  sacri- 
ficed much  for  it,  but  she  had  never  been  balked  in 
her  pursuit  of  it  and  had  never  learned  in  personal 
disappointment  this  destructive  envy  of  the  suc- 
cessful. 

"  Do  you  really  believe,"  she  asked,  with  an 
eagerness  which  almost  surprised  Clo  out  of  her 
animosity  for  the  moment,  "  that — that  a  lot  of 
people  I've  never  harmed,  never  known,  would 
be  glad  if  misfortune  overtook  me?" 

Clo  laughed.  "  Why,  sure !  Don't  you  know 
that  yourself?  " 

"No,  I  didn't  know;  I  suppose  I  should, 
but  I  didn't.  I  never  have  felt  that  way.  I've 
always  known  successful  people,  and  liked  them; 
it  never  occurred  to  me  to  hate  any  of  them  for 
their  success — to  grudge  success  to  any  one,  even 
if  I  didn't  like  them.  Why,"  with  a  weary,  little 
laugh,  "  sometimes  I  feel  so  about  success  that  I 
wouldn't  wish  it  for  my  dearest  foe !  I've  always 
seen  so  much  of  the  other  side  of  it,  the  tragedy 
of  it,  that  I  can't  see  how  anybody  can  feel  about 
it  the  way  you  say  you  do.  Haven't  you  read  about 
it?  Don't  you  know  it's  all  a  story  of  heart- 
break?" 

"  I  guess  all  life  is  heart-break,  all  right,"  said 
Clorinda,  slowly,  with  not  a  trace  of  the  passion  of 
a  moment  ago,  "  but,"  suddenly  resentful  again, 
"  some  of  you  have  the  pleasure  of  triumph  along 


Felicity 

with  the  pain  that's  common  to  us  all.  And  some 
of  us  have  only  the  pain — nothing  else!  " 

To  this,  Felicity  had  nothing  to  say.  It  was  so 
true,  and  then  again,  in  a  way  she  could  never  hope 
to  make  plain  to  Clo,  it  was  not  true  at  all.  In 
the  pause  that  followed,  Clo  stooped  and  rear- 
ranged two  or  three  long-stemmed  carnations 
among  the  flowering  myrtle  on  The  Old  Man's 
grave.  Watching  her,  something  flashed  into 
Felicity's  mind. 

u  You  didn't  hate  him  for  his  success,"  she 
said. 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

Felicity's  eagerness  made  her  seem  so  insist- 
ent that  Clorinda  showed  a  disinclination  to  be 
quizzed.  Felicity  read  it  quickly. 

"  Please !  "  she  entreated.  "  I  don't  mean  to 
be  impertinent,  to  pry  into  your  feelings,  but  I 
want  to  know  so  much!  You  don't  know,"  she 
said,  coming  round  to  the  same  side  of  the  grave 
with  Clo  and  laying  a  beseeching  hand  on  her 
arm,  "  how  much  you  could  do  for  me  if  you 
would!" 

Clo  could  not  help  looking  the  astonishment 
she  felt. 

"  Indeed  you  could,"  Felicity  reiterated.  "  You 
think  the  world's  a  lonely  place  for  people  who 
don't  succeed,  but  I  tell  you  it's  a  far  lonelier 

312 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

place  for  people  who  do !  You  think  people  hold 
aloof  from  you  because  you've  been  unfortunate. 
I  tell  you  they  hold  more  aloof  from  me  because 
I'm  what  they  call  fortunate!  No!  don't  look 
incredulous — it's  so !  You  don't  know  how  I 
loathe  people,  most  of  the  time,  for  their  ever- 
lasting consciousness  of  my  success.  I  don't  want 
their  adulation — I'm  cloyed  with  adulation — I 
want  their  comradeship.  Now,  tell  me,  Clo  Det- 
mar — woman  to  woman — why  you  didn't  grudge 
him  his  triumphs."  She  bent  her  head,  indicating 
where  The  Old  Man  lay. 

Clo  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  but  Felicity 
knew  it  was  the  silence  not  of  sullenness,  but 
of  reflection.  "  Well,"  she  said,  presently,  "  I 
don't  know's  I've  ever  figured  the  thing  out 
in  any  way  that'd  suit  you,  but  maybe  it  was 
because — I  can't  exactly  describe  it,  but  because 
he  was  a  man,  for  one  thing,  and  it  didn't  seem 
as  if  he  was  cutting  in  on  any  of  the  things  I'd 
hoped  to  have  for  myself.  A  good  many  o'  the 
men  of  his  profession  had  it  in  for  him,  I  guess. 
They  started  neck  and  neck  with  him,  and  ran  even 
for  a  while,  and  then  he  passed  'em,  running  like 
the  wind,  and  all  the  world  yelled  for  him,  while 
they  were  nothing  but  '  also  rans  ' — and  they 
thought  they  were  just  as  good  actors,  or  better. 
Yes,  the  men,  especially  the  comedy  men,  had  it 
in  for  him,  all  right — not  openly,  you  know,  but 

313 


Felicity 


there  was  a  lot  o'  them  that  couldn't  help  being 
glad  when  he  got  a  poor  play,  or  a  good  roast. 
And  then,  people  get  tired  of  hearing  another 
person  praised,  always  praised,  and  even  if  they've 
never  seen  you,  they  get  a  kind  o'  grudge  against 
you." 

"  Aristides  the  Just,"  murmured  Felicity. 

"Who?" 

She  explained. 

"  The  world's  always  been  pretty  much  the 
same,  hasn't  it?"  said  Clo,  delighted  with  the 
idea. 

"  And  then,"  she  went  on,'  when  Felicity  had 
assented,  "  I  think  some  people's  success  doesn't 
rankle  like  others'  because  you  know  they're  sad, 
and  you  feel  sorry  for  them.  When  I  was  a  real 
young  girl  I  played  in  Miss  Cushman's  company, 
and  I  didn't  envy  her,  nor  grudge  her  all  she  got, 
because  I  knew  how  she  suffered  from  that  cancer 
that  was  killing  her — eating  into  her  breast  like 
fire.  When  the  audiences  applauded  her,  I  was 
glad ;  they  could  never  go  wild  enough  to  suit  me, 
I  was  so  sorry  for  her,  she  was  so  plucky!  But 
you!  There's  something  about  your  success  that 
makes  me  feel  it's  unjust  for  one  woman  to  have 
so  much.  You  seem  to  have — well,  to  have  got 
my  share,  too,  somehow,  and  a  lot  o'  other  women's 
share,  and  I  keep  crying  inside  o'  me  that  it  ain't 
fair.  Maybe  you've  got  your  troubles,  too,  like 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

the  rest  of  us;  but  we  can't  see  'em,  and  so  we  can't 
be  sorry  for  you." 

Felicity  was  about  to  reply  when  she  gave, 
instead,  a  glad  little  recognizing  cry  and  in  an 
instant  was  running  forward  with  welcoming  hands 
outstretched. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh !  "  she  murmured  in  staccato 
ecstasy,  holding  one  hand  of  Frances  Allston's  and 
one  of  Morton's,  "  I  never  dared  to  hope  for  this ! 
You  didn't  answer  my  letter,"  addressing  Frances, 
"  and  I  gave  up  all  idea  of  having  you." 

"Letter?"  Frances  looked  blank.  "Did  you 
write?" 

"  I  certainly  did — on  Monday." 

"  I  never  got  it." 

"You  didn't!" 

And  then  a  light  broke  upon  Felicity.  She 
clapped  her  hand  to  her  mouth  and  rolled  her 
eyes  in  a  grimace  so  deliciously  like  her  childhood 
that  these  two  who  had  known  her  in  that  child- 
hood, laughed.  They  understood,  without  a  word, 
what  had  happened.  Felicity  seemed  not  at  all 
provoked,  but  highly  amused. 

"  Could  anything  be  more  beautifully  common- 
place?" she  cried,  gayly.  "  Oh,  I'm  delighted — 
now  that  it's  all  turned  out  so  well.  I  feel  that 
I've  had  another  universal  experience — that  I'm 
married  for  sure,  now,  when  I've  given  my  hus- 
band a  letter  to  mail,  and  he  hasn't  mailed  it !  " 

315 


Felicity 

She  introduced  Clorinda,  and  explanations  fol- 
lowed. Morton  was  in  Boston  on  business — had 
arrived  that  morning — and  had  written  his  mother 
to  meet  him  there  on  Decoration  Day,  knowing 
how  she  would  love  to  go  to  her  father's  grave 
that  day. 

"  I  didn't  know  until  I  got  here,"  he  said,  "  that 
you  were  playing  here.  Mother  knew  it,  of 
course,  from  the  Boston  papers.  We  called  at  your 
hotel  an  hour  ago  and  left  our  cards;  we're  at 
Young's." 

'  You  must  come  back  to  lunch  with  me,  and  to 
the  play  to-night,  if  you  care  to.  I  wish  you'd 
come  to  lunch,  too,"  she  said  to  Clo — who  declined, 
however,  and  soon  slipped  away. 

Left  to  themselves,  these  three  who  were  knit 
so  close  by  their  common  memories  of  The  Old 
Man,  had  a  happy  half  hour  in  his  presence,  as 
it  were,  talking  now  of  him,  now  of  poor  Sadie 
and  the  baby,  now  of  Felicity  and  what  she  was 
doing.  She  told  them  something  of  her  conversa- 
tion with  Clorinda,  and  they  laughed  at  her,  gently, 
for  the  excitement  she  displayed  over  it. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said,  laughing,  too,  "  every 
day,  it  seems  to  me,  I  make  a  tremendous  discov- 
ery of  something  everybody  else  in  the  world  has 
known  all  along,  and  I  get  so  excited  I  can  hardly 
contain  myself  and  all  my  knowledge!  I  go 
around  thinking  *  Ah,  ha !  this  explains  that,  which 

316 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me.  Now,  if  I  can 
only  play  such-and-such  a  character  again,  I'll 
know  how  to  turn  a  regular  calcium  light  on  her 
motives  and  what  beset  her ! '  People  ask  me, 
sometimes,  why  I  don't  leave  the  stage.  Why, 
almost  every  day  I  have  a  new  conviction  that  I 
can  never  leave  it  until  I've  gone  back  and  rein- 
terpreted all  the  parts  I've  played  wrong,  and 
put  in  all  the  delicate  touches  of  understanding  I 
left  out  because  I  didn't  know  any  better.  It's 
such  an  unrelenting  passion,  this  passion  to  por- 
tray !  And  when  one  has  found  out  a  modicum  of 
what  one  yearns  to  know,  then  it's  time  to  lie 
here,  and  let  the  raw  new  generation  come  on  and 
make  the  same  mistakes." 

"  Your  zest  for  life  is  wonderful,  Felicity." 
Morton  was  without  bitterness,  but  there  was  no 
ardor  about  him  any  more — only  patience. 

"  I  am  zestful,"  she  admitted,  "  I  feel  it  every 
day  I  live.  My  life  is  hard,  in  many  ways,  and 
sometimes  I  think  I've  lost  all  love  for  it,  but  deep 
down  in  my  heart  I  know  better,  for  it's  interest- 
ing— my!  but  it's  interesting.  The  minute  I  get 
a  scrap  of  knowledge  I  can  feel  it  going  into  use — 
can  feel  how  I've  always  needed  it,  and  wonder 
how  I  got  along  without  it.  It's  like  being  a 
painter  and  learning  each  day  how  to  mix  some 
new  color  that  was  impossible  to  you  yesterday, 
and  you  can  hardly  wait  to  get  at  a  canvas  to  try 

317 


Felicity 

it.  Only,  if  you're  a  painter,  you  can  go  over  the 
old  canvases  and  touch  'em  up  with  your  new 
knowledge.  I  can't.  When  a  performance  is 
played  it  is  played,  and  become  a  memory — hun- 
dreds of  memories!  I  can't  recall  it,  and  give  it 
a  wiser  interpretation.  I  may  do  the  character  bet- 
ter for  another  occasion,  but  the  same  people  won't 
see  it;  today's  knowledge  is  no  use  to  last  night's 
audience.  But  that's  only  life,  as  The  Old  Man 
used  to  remind  me — today's  wisdom  can't  recall 
the  indiscretions  of  last  week,  he  used  to  say,  but 
one  must  be  a  man  about  one's  mistakes.  Nobody 
knows  how  often  I've  comforted  myself  with 
that!" 

As  they  were  leaving  the  cemetery  the  incoming 
crowds  seemed  to  swarm  over  everything.  The 
early  comers  had  been  many,  but  all  reverent — 
nearly  all  there  to  decorate  some  hallowed  spot. 
These  later  comers  were  the  advance  guard  of 
the  holiday  army,  and  they  brought  with  them  an 
air  of  sight-seeing,  of  pleasure-seeking,  that  blew 
harsh  on  delicate  sensibilities.  Romping  children 
chased  each  other  in  the  paths  and  even  among 
the  graves;  elders  chatted  inconsequently,  and 
hunted  for  stones  bearing  well-known  names,  with 
an  idle  curiosity  that  angered  Felicity. 

"  I  hate  their  coming  here  to  gape  and  stare," 
she  said,  resentfully.  "  I  hate  their  laughter,  in 
this  place  where  so  many  hearts  have  broken.  And 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

yet,"  whimsically,  tenderly,  "  I  remember  being 
here  with  The  Old  Man,  once,  on  Decoration  Day, 
and  there  were  just  such  crowds,  and  I  had  just 
such  hate  of  them,  and  he  wouldn't  uphold  me. 
He  said  I  wouldn't  feel  that  way  when  I  was 
older — that  I'd  be  glad  people  could  laugh  and 
be  careless  sometimes,  when  I  knew  how  hard 
their  lives  were  most  times.  But  I'm  not  that 
old  yet!" 

When  they  got  back  to  the  Parker  House,  Felic- 
ity ordered  luncheon  in  her  rooms  and  found  there 
Morton's  card  accompanying  just  such  a  box  of 
pink  roses  as  he  always  sent  her. 

Vincent  was  up,  and  immaculate.  He  kept  a 
man,  now,  and  was  a  greater  dandy  than  ever — 
always  in  perfect  taste,  and  the  perfection  of 
grooming.  He  held  the  conference  with  the 
waiter  and  gave  explicit  directions  about  the  lunch. 
Felicity  never  bothered  about  such  things  when 
she  could  depute  them  to  this  past  master. 

He  was  charmingly  contrite  about  the  unmailed 
letter,  and  promised  to  send  it  to  Frances  when 
he  found  it — which  he  did,  late  that  afternoon, 
and  despatched  it  to  her  with  a  box  of  flowers  and 
tickets  for  a  box  at  the  play  that  night. 

"  Vincent  Delano  is  a  puzzle  to  me,"  Frances 
told  Morton  when  the  messenger  had  delivered  his 
burden  and  gone.  "  When  I'm  with  him,  I  can 
understand  why  Felicity  married  him,  but  when 

319 


Felicity 


I'm  away  from  him,  I  can  only  wonder  how  she 
could  do  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  see  it  any  of  the  time," 
returned  Morton.  "  He's  colossally  selfish  and 
vain,  and " 

"  Father  was  selfish — in  a  way,"  Frances  rumi- 
nated, "  he  wasn't  a  man  who  sacrificed  his  com- 
forts or  his  own  way.  But  he  always  managed  to 
get  what  he  wanted  without  seeming  insistent  about 
it.  I  don't  know  how  it  was — he  never  gave  up 
his  way,  but  he  could  usually  make  his  way  so 
desirable.  He " 

"  Oh,  rubbish,  Mater  dear !  Excuse  me,  but  I 
can't  stand  to  hear  you  compare  Gran  with  this 
weakling  Delano !  It  infuriates  me  to  see  a  sleek 
fellow  like  that  sliding  through  the  world  without 
a  care,  and  then,  to  cap  it  all,  some  exquisite 
woman  like  Felicity  comes  along  and  pours  all  her 
treasures  at  his  dapper  feet." 

"  That's  the  pity,"  commented  Frances,  "  of  a 
situation  like  hers.  A  woman's  cruelly  placed,  for 
happiness,  when  she's  on  the  heights.  Only  a  very 
big-souled  man  is  fine  enough  to  live  with  her 
without  jealousy  or  without  deterioration  and, 
somehow,  they're  the  men  who  are  always  stand- 
ing back,  silent,  because  they  are  afraid  they  have 
nothing  to  offer;  and  ordinary  men,  such  as  make 
ordinary  women  good  husbands,  are  too  vain,  too 
fond  of  dominance,  to  try  it;  so  it  leaves  women 

320 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

like  Felicity  to  the  mercy  of  such  groundlings  as 
don't  care  what  their  relationships  are  if  only 
they're  fed  and — and  perfumed !  " 

Morton's  face  wore  a  strange  look,  as  if  there 
was  much  he  wanted  to  say,  but  could  not. 

"  Marriage  is  the  great  mystery,"  he  said,  gener- 
alizing with  evident  effort  as  one  not  daring  to 
particularize,  "  either  a  wonderful  Providence  or 
an  unmerciful  satirist  must  be  back  of  it  all — and 
it's  hard  to  guess  which!  " 

It  was  only  in  such  indirect  ways  as  this  that 
Morton  ever  revealed  the  hurt  of  his  heart.  His 
resignation,  his  gentle  devotion,  had  been  wonder- 
ful, as  they  always  are  in  a  young  man  full  of  zest 
for  life  and  success  and  the  pleasures  of  his  fellows, 
and  compelled  to  endure  and  not  to  achieve. 
Frances  had  all  a  mother's  intense  yearning  over 
her  child  so  cruelly  afflicted,  but  she  dared  not 
voice  the  questions  that  tortured  her  heart,  dared 
not  probe  to  find  if  he  were  rebellious  for  Sadie 
only,  or  for  himself  as  well.  That  he  could  be 
other  than  rebellious  in  his  heart,  Frances  did  not 
even  hope.  How  could  he  be  other?  So  young, 
and  face  to  face  with  a  life-long  tragedy.  If  his 
love  for  poor  Sadie  were  great  enough,  this  thing 
might  come  in  time  to  be  a  wonderful  ennobling 
to  him.  But  if  it  were  not  greater  than  his  self- 
pity,  she  knew  how  all  the  chances  were  in  favor 
of  his  becoming  hard  or  careless.  His  salvation 

321 


Felicity 


lay  in  his  caring  so  much  on  Sadie's  account  that 
he  would  forget  to  be  self-pitying.  But,  vital  as 
she  knew  this  matter  to  be,  Frances  dared  not 
broach  it,  save  indirectly.  There  are  some  soul- 
depths  too  sacred  for  even  a  mother  to  invade. 

Felicity  played  in  Marianna  that  night  and 
played  it  with  a  freshness,  a  zestfulness  which 
owed  a  great  deal,  Morton  felt  sure,  to  her  inter- 
view with  Clorinda  that  day.  After  the  play,  he 
and  Frances  went  back  for  a  few  minutes'  chat 
with  Felicity.  While  they  were  in  her  dressing- 
room,  Vincent  came  in,  ready  for  the  street ;  Felic- 
ity still  wore  her  make-up,  and  was  just  as  she  had 
come  off  the  stage,  in  her  regal  gown  and  weight 
of  jewels. 

"  Dearest,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  see  it's  likely  to 
be  a  good  while  before  you're  ready  to  go,  and 
I'm  going  to  ask  these  good  friends  to  see  that 
you  get  to  the  hotel — as  it's  on  their  way.  I'm 
awfully  sorry,  but  I've  a  supper  engagement. 
Felicity'll  never  sup,  you  know,"  he  added  to  the 
Allstons.  "  And  I  have  to  make  all  my  engage- 
ments without  her.  It's  no  end  of  a  pity,  I'm 
always  telling  her,  that  she  can't  give  more  peo- 
ple the  pleasure  of  her  society — but  she's  always 
too  tired."  He  kissed  her,  hoped  to  see  the  All- 
stons to-morrow,  and  was  gone. 

They  walked  back  to  the  hotel  through  the  soft 
322 


"The  Other  Side  of  Success" 

May  night,  loitering  past  the  Common  while  Felic- 
ity recalled  for  them  the  scene  of  her  first  rehearsal, 
there  on  a  bench  in  the  Mall. 

"  I'd  ask  you  in,"  she  said,  at  the  hotel  door, 
"  but  I'm  feeling  very  tired — Mt.  Auburn,  I  sup- 
pose— and  to-morrow  is  my  double  work,  you 
know.  I'll  see  you  Sunday  morning,  and  we'll 
have  a  lovely,  restful  day  in  Millville.  Good- 
night." 

Upstairs,  overlooking  King's  Chapel  with  its 
ancient  burying-ground,  Felicity  had  the  finest 
suite  the  hotel  afforded,  the  suite  that  had  housed 
so  many  notables.  But  it  was  lonely,  to-night;  not 
even  the  ghosts  of  other  days  could  give  it  interest. 
Morton's  roses  were  more  companionable  than  all 
the  rest. 

Felicity  had  her  dressing-gown  and  slippers  put 
on  and  her  shining  hair  brushed — to  keep  it  shin- 
ing. Then  she  dismissed  Celeste. 

When  the  woman  was  gone,  she  turned  the 
lights  low  and  sat  down  by  the  window  in  a  deep 
armchair.  The  squat  outlines  of  the  historic 
church  were  very  nearly  all  her  view — but  she  was 
not  seeing  them. 

She  was  still  sitting  there,  quite  wide  awake, 
when  Vincent  came  In,  at  past  two  o'clock. 


323 


CHAPTER   XX 

VIGIL 

"  T  TELL  you,   they  all   say  the   same   thing : 

J[  •  '  The  dog  towns  may  stand  for  it,  but  New 
York  won't.'  " 

Garvish  was  angry  and  excited,  and  his  voice 
had  as  much  threatening  in  it  as  a  manager  might 
dare  to  employ  toward  the  most  profitable  star  in 
the  country. 

The  final  curtain  had  just  fallen  on  the  first  night 
of  the  Fergus  season  in  New  York.  It  was  mid- 
October,  1894 — that  year  of  financial  panic  in 
which  the  theatres  suffered  so  severely.  Those 
people  who  could  pay  to  be  beguiled  of  their  wor- 
ries, were  still  theatre-going;  but  every  theatre  that 
did  not  yield  the  full  worth  of  its  charges  in  diver- 
sion, was  the  scene  of  disaster. 

The  public  was  willing  to  spend  of  its  dimin- 
ished amusement  allowance  on  Felicity.  She  always 
beguiled  it  thoroughly,  never  gave  it  the  hor- 
rors, always  made  It  laugh  and  sent  it  away  with 
a  kindlier  feeling  toward  the  world  as  a  place 
to  live  in.  Then,  too,  she  had  been  playing  abroad 
a  great  deal,  the  last  two  years,  and  New  York 

324 


Vigil 

had  seen  little  of  her.  London  had  gone  quite 
mad  over  Felicity;  honors  were  heaped  upon  her 
almost  to  suffocation,  and  American  critics  abroad 
wrote  back  reports  of  her  great  gain  in  depth  of 
power.  Garvish  congratulated  himself,  in  the 
furore  of  their  return  in  August,  that  he  was  one 
man  whose  prospects  for  the  season  were  good. 

Then  came  an  altercation  about  a  play.  They 
had  played  repertoire  abroad,  with  an  occasional 
long  run  on  some  special — and  often  quite  unex- 
pected— favorite.  The  American  public  was  eager 
to  see  Felicity  again  in  roles  she  had  made  famous ; 
but  she  insisted  on  a  new  play,  too.  Garvish  com- 
plained bitterly  of  the  hard  times,  the  needless 
expense,  but  Felicity  was  obdurate,  as  gently,  im- 
movably obdurate  as  ever  her  little  mother  had 
been.  She  had  a  tremendous  stock  of  inherited 
obduracy  to  draw  on,  had  Felicity. 

Ordinarily,  she  cared  little  for  management, 
nothing  for  venture.  She  was  anxious  only  to  be 
free  of  managerial  cares,  that  she  might  give  the 
more  time  and  energy  to  her  personal  work.  She 
was  not  greedy  for  money — there  were  so  few 
things  she  cared  for  that  money  would  buy — and 
was  not  carried  away  by  the  new  fever  for  "  pro- 
ductions." She  was  true  to  the  school  she  was 
brought  up  in.  People  came  to  see  her,  she  knew, 
and  though  she  had  never  been  disposed  to  trifle 
with  them  by  offering  herself  in  an  unsuitable  role, 

325 


Felicity 


she  scorned  such  adventitious  aids  as  those  with 
which  her  friends  Irving  and  Terry  had  dazzled 
America  in  the  season  previous.  "  As  if,"  she  said 
to  Miss  Terry,  "  any  one  ever  knows  what's  on  the 
stage,  or  off  it,  when  you're  playing !  " 

"  The  best  playing's  possible  only  with  the  best 
support,"  she  contended,  "  but  every  other  con- 
sideration is  folly.  The  illusion's  in  the  art,  or  it's 
not  there  at  all."  There  had  been  some  interest- 
ing discussions  in  London  before  she  sailed  for 
home. 

As  for  Garvish,  he  would  supply  anything  the 
public  would  pay  to  see,  from  tank  melodrama  to 
open-air  "  As  You  Like  It,"  but  if  the  public  would 
flock  to  see  his  star  without  other  inducements 
than  her  playing,  he  was  content  to  save  himself 
worry  and  expense  by  accepting  her  theory  of  art. 

Accordingly,  they  had  fewer  controversies — to 
put  it  politely — than  is  commonly  possible  between 
manager  and  star,  especially  between  such  on  the 
basis  of  Felicity's  contract,  which  was  a  guarantee 
practically  amounting  to  salary:  so  that  Garvish, 
if  a  big  season  left  him  a  bulk  of  the  earnings, 
would  be  the  only  loser  by  a  poor  one.  This  is 
not  a  basis  nicely  calculated  for  peace,  but  in  this 
case  it  had  never  failed  to  satisfy  Garvish,  and 
then ! — it  was  the  only  one  that  Felicity,  with  her 
dislike  of  uncertainties,  would  accept. 

Now,  in  the  opening  weeks  of  what  ought  to  be 
326 


Vigil 

their  biggest  season — the  panic  notwithstanding — 
they  were  at  daggers  drawn.  Felicity  had  insisted 
on  including  in  her  repertoire  a  play  which  every- 
body in  her  advising  acquaintance  had  told  her 
frankly  was  no  play  for  her. 

'  Why,  the  star  part's  not  a  woman's  part  at 
all,  it's  a  man's!  "  Garvish  had  protested. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  be  credited  with  sense  enough 
to  see  that,"  she  had  replied,  "  but  you  know  how 
little  I  care  for  what's  technically  considered  the 
centre  of  the  stage.  I  hope  I  can  be  trusted  to 
make  that  part  the  centre  where  I  am !  " 

'  Trusted  nothing!  "  muttered  Garvish,  out  of 
her  hearing,  "  what  she  wants  is  to  give  that  hus- 
band of  hers  something  to  satisfy  his  vanity.  I 
see  through  her!  And  I  won't  stand  for  it — not 
on  my  money  !  " 

It  was  a  continual  grievance  to  Garvish,  at 
best,  to  have  Vincent  in  the  company,  though 
he  liked  him  personally.  He  wanted  a  younger 
leading  man,  and  disapproved,  according  to 
the  traditions  of  his  class,  of  married  stars, 
if  possible;  certainly  of  married  couples  in  the 
same  company.  But,  of  course,  it  was  Vincent 
or  nothing,  with  Miss  Fergus;  that  was  settled 
long  ago.  And  as  long  as  success  continued  at 
high  tide  there  was  no  possible  excuse  for  urging 
Vincent's  removal;  as  long  as  all  the  seats  were 
sold,  it  would  be  useless  to  contend  that  with  a 

327 


Felicity- 
younger  man  in  Vincent's  place  they  could  turn 
more  people  away. 

Heretofore,  though,  Vincent  had  been,  if  not 
content  at  least  willing  to  play  supporting  roles, 
usually  the  chief.  But,  like  every  other  supporting 
actor  who  ever  lived,  Vincent  felt  that  only  lack 
of  chance  to  show  himself  a  star  had  kept  him  out 
of  the  stellar  heavens.  Now,  evidently,  he  had 
prevailed  upon  his  wife  to  jeopardize  her  own  for- 
tunes and  other  people's  by  insisting  on  a  play 
which  would  give  him  the  part  he  wanted  and  prac- 
tically subordinate  her  part  to  his. 

"  As  if  he  could  shine  beside  her  if  he  had  all 
the  lines  in  the  play  but  three,  and  she  had  those !  " 
growled  Garvish  to  a  sympathizing  friend. 

But  the  play  she  would  play,  and  after  a  number 
of  tempests  which  wore  out  everybody  but  Vin- 
cent, who  was  never  in  them,  the  play  was  added 
to  the  repertoire  and  tried  out  on  the  smaller  towns 
where  the  first  bookings  were. 

These  towns  were,  in  the  vernacular  of  Garvish, 
"easy."  They  were  prepared  to  acclaim,  and  they 
did  acclaim,  for  the  most  part.  Their  critics  said 
little  about  the  play  and  nothing  about  the  other 
players,  but  concentrated  their  efforts  on  "  re- 
hashes "  of  the  cabled  reports  describing  Felicity's 
growth,  her  "  pre-eminence  as  the  most  artistic 
comedienne  on  the  English-speaking  stage  with  the 
possible  exception  of  Ellen  Terry,  who,  however 

328 


Vigil 


we  may  think  of  her  as  born  to  be  such,  has 
essayed  so  great  diversity  of  roles  that  she  cannot 
be  classed  as  strictly  a  comedienne,"  and  so  on. 
From  a  box-office  point  of  view  they  were  satisfac- 
tory efforts :  they  made  the  public  feel  that  not  to 
have  seen  Felicity  was  next  door  to  a  crime  of  negli- 
gence. But  from  her  point  of  view — glad  as  she 
was  to  have  her  choice  of  play  unattacked — they 
were  like  most  of  their  class,  concerning  which  she 
had  often  said  that  they  were  one  of  the  worst 
trials  of  success.  "  Few  things,"  she  always  con- 
tended, "  hurt  me  so  much  as  slushy  praise.  I 
think :  Merciful  Heaven !  what  is  the  use  of  worry- 
ing myself  sick  over  the  subtleties  of  art,  if  no 
beholder  has  any  more  understanding  of  what  I'm 
trying  to  do  than  this?  " 

There  came  near  not  being  any  first  night  in 
New  York,  as  Vincent  laughingly  declared — not 
being  any  manager,  or  any  star  left  by  that  time, 
Felicity  having  declared  for  the  new  play  to  open 
with. 

Garvish  had  never  seen  such  unyielding  obsti- 
nacy. "  You're  crazy !  "  he  shouted,  casting  gal- 
lantry to  the  winds,  "  you're  determined  to  ruin 
yourself  and  me.  There  must  be  a  law  to 
protect  me,  some  injunction  that  'will  restrain 
you  You  are  mad !  You  have  lost  your  common- 
sense  !  " 

329 


Felicity 


"  They  know  we  gave  the  play  to  other  places. 
If  we  open  in  New  York  with  an  old  play  it'll  be 
a  confession  that  the  new  one  won't  do,  that  we're 
afraid  of  it!  " 

"  Well!    What  of  it?    We  are  afraid  of  it!  " 

"I'm  not!" 

"  You've  lost  your  reason,  I  tell  you — or  you 
would  be !  " 

But  they  opened  with  it,  none  the  less.  And 
Garvish's  scout,  circulating  between  the  acts  among 
the  critics  in  the  foyer  and  at  the  nearest  bar, 
reported  that  the  opinion  was  practically  unani- 
mous as  to  this  being  no  play  for  Felicity.  "  They 
say,"  the  scout  reported,  "  that  it's  pathetically 
evident  she  has  sacrificed  herself  to  give  Delano 
a  chance  he's  not  fitted  for." 

Garvish  dared  not  repeat  this  to  Felicity,  but  he 
bided  confidently  the  time  when  she  should  see  it 
in  print,  either  boldly  stated  or  in  innuendo,  and 
was  almost  glad  to  anticipate  the  criticism  which 
would  confirm  what  he  had  told  her.  To-night, 
he  contented  himself  with  repeating  to  her  what 
the  critics  had  been  overheard  to  say  about  the 
play. 

Felicity's  brown  eyes  burned  like  black ;  the  dull 
crimson  flamed,  beneath  the  make-up,  over  her 
cheeks;  but  she  said  little;  restraint  was  born  in 
her,  she  had  no  facile  fury,  easily  aroused  and  as 
easily  appeased.  Garvish  wished  she  had.  He 

330 


Vigil 


was  used  to  that,  better  able  to  meet  it  and  to  fight 
it  than  this  quiet  obstinacy  which  seldom  came  out 
from  under  cover  to  return  fusillade  for  fusil- 
lade. 

Garvish  was  not  given  to  subtleties,  but  he  could 
not  help  reflecting — no  sane  man  could — on  how 
"  difficult  "  Miss  Fergus  had  grown  since  her  mar- 
riage. He  was  not  surprised;  it  only  bore  out  his 
idea,  and  other  managers',  that  husband  and 
wife  in  the  same  company  always  made  "  the  devil 
to  pay,"  and  where  one  of  the  twain  was  the  star 
—well ! 

He  spoke  of  Felicity  to  his  confidants — and  they 
were  a  great  many — as  "  continually  having  a 
chip  on  her  shoulder."  She  had!  Garvish  could 
not  understand  why.  He  liked  Vincent,  person- 
ally, very  well — much  better  than  he  liked  Felic- 
ity. And  Vincent,  Garvish  argued,  did  not  seem 
to  flirt  with  other  women — much;  he  was  conspicu- 
ously gallant  to  his  wife,  and  they  always  appeared 
to  be  on  the  most  affectionate  and  good-natured 
terms.  That,  notwithstanding  all  this,  the  mar- 
riage might  have  proved  a  galling  disappointment 
to  Felicity,  Garvish  did  not  dream,  could  not 
have  dreamed.  He  attributed  many  of  the  things 
she  did,  the  things  that  exasperated  him,  to 
her  being  "  spoiled,"  and  told  himself  that  mar- 
riage had  made  her  worse  because  Vincent  was 
"  such  a  slave  to  her." 

331 


Felicity 

Garvish  could  testify  to  that  slavery.  He 
had  travelled  with  them,  now,  five  years,  and  he 
knew  that  Vincent  never  left  his  wife,  when  they 
got  aboard  their  private  car,  until  he  saw  that  she 
was  comfortably  settled;  only  then  would  he  join 
the  men  of  the  staff  and  company,  forward  in  the 
Pullman  smoker.  When  they  reached  each  stop- 
ping-place, Vincent  was  full  of  solicitude  about  the 
hotel  quarters  engaged  for  them,  and  the  reason- 
able comfort  of  the  theatre  dressing-rooms.  Only 
when  she  expressed  herself  satisfied,  would  he  leave 
her,  to  knock  around  with  the  fellows  and  see  a 
little  of  the  world  outside  the  theatre — the  world 
she  seemed  to  care  nothing  about.  According  to 
Garvish's  idea,  Vincent's  manners  toward  his  wife 
were  ridiculously  fine ;  he  rose  when  she  entered  the 
room,  he  opened  doors  for  her  and  adjusted  shawls 
and  rugs,  and  fetched  and  carried  for  her  gener- 
ally, in  ways  quite  unnecessary,  as  she  kept  two 
maids.  All  this  had  made  Miss  Fergus,  in  Gar- 
vish's opinion,  "  very  difficult."  He  thought  her 
the  embodiment  of  self-worship,  and  was  surprised 
when  she  showed  this  obstinate  eagerness  to  put  on 
a  play  which  would  give  Vincent  the  "  fat  "  part. 
He  hadn't  thought  her  likely  to  reciprocate  in  that 
way;  it  was  hardly  in  human  nature  for  any  star 
to  do  that.  But  much  as  he  might  have  admired 
the  magnanimity  in  other  circumstances,  Garvish 
was  little  concerned  with  motives  in  this  particular 

332 


Vigil 

instance.  He  did  not  care  why  Felicity  wanted 
to  do  this  thing;  he  cared  only  that  she  should  be 
kept  from  doing  it. 

Something  of  all  these  things  was  in  his  subcon- 
sciousness  to-night  as  he  stood  looking  at  her,  in 
her  cluttered,  close-smelling  little  dressing-room — 
hardly  more  than  a  booth,  with  none  of  the  ele- 
gance about  it  that  the  public  might  think  befit- 
ting so  great  a  star. 

Celeste  and  Justine,  the  second  maid,  were  both 
busy  with  the  elegant  costumes,  jewels  and  other 
accessories  Felicity  had  worn  during  the  evening. 
They  were  tired  to  exhaustion,  and  moved  wearily 
in  the  restricted  space,  "  stumping  "  in  their  broad, 
heelless  slippers.  Any  one  less  accustomed  to  them 
than  Garvish,  would  have  grinned  to  note  how  lit- 
tle they  looked  like  the  pictures  of  French  maids  in 
the  magazines,  or  like  the  French  maids  they  them- 
selves sometimes  personated  on  the  stage — speak- 
ing their  line  or  two  flirtatiously  and  then  tripping 
off  to  discard  their  high-heeled  shoes,  tiny,  ruffled 
aprons  and  butterfly  caps,  for  gear  better  suited 
to  the  hard  work  they  had  to  do. 

Felicity  herself  was  almost  ugly  at  such  close 
range  in  her  make-up;  the  rouge  and  pencil  her 
delicate  features  and  coloring  made  so  necessary 
for  the  stage,  were  quite  grotesque,  at  a  distance 
of  three  feet. 

"  No !  "  she  said,  sharply,  as  more  cards  were 

333 


Felicity 


brought  her,  "  tell  them  all '  no,'  I  told  you  !  Why 
do  people  insist  on  trying  to  see  me  on  a  first  night? 
Haven't  they  any  sense?  any  decency?  don't  they 
know  I'm  so  nervous  I'm  sick?  " 

"  Some  o'  these  are  newspaper  men,"  said  Gar- 
vish,  looking  at  the  cards. 

"Critics?" 

"No;  reporters,  I  guess." 

"  I  won't  see  them.    What  do  they  want?  " 

Garvish  shrugged.     "  Shall  I  ask  them?  " 

'  Yes ;  but  don't  bring  them  in  here.  I  won't 
see  them." 

While  Garvish  was  at  the  stage  door,  Vincent 
came  over  from  his  dressing-room  across  the  stage. 
He  was  giving  a  little  supper  after  the  play,  and, 
in  evening  dress,  with  his  Inverness  cloak  across 
his  arm  and  his  opera  hat  in  hand,  he  looked 
as  if  he  might  be  about  to  step  before  an  audience 
in  one  of  those  polite  comedy  roles  wherewith  he 
was  so  identified.  It  wras  a  current  observation  in 
stagedom  that  no  other  man  on  the  boards  wore 
evening  dress  so  elegantly  as  Vincent.  "  No  one 
would  ever  mistake  him  for  a  waiter,"  people 
agreed,  "  he's  the  real  thing,  when  it  comes  to  fine 
manners  and  fine  clothes."  Vincent  was  fully 
aware  of  this  opinion  and  it  gave  him,  perhaps,  a 
deeper  satisfaction  than  if  he  had  been  acclaimed 
"  the  real  thing  "  in  art. 

"  Why,  hello !  "  he  exclaimed,  cheerily,  looking 

334 


Vigil 

in  on  the  confusion  in  his  wife's  dressing-room, 
"  just  as  you  came  off!  What's  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh,"  Felicity  gave  one  glance  at  the  two 
weary  maids,  as  if  she  could  not  speak  her  mind 
before  them.  Vincent  had  a  way  of  acting  as  if 
servants  had  neither  ears,  tongues,  nor  understand- 
ing, and  it  was  a  way  by  which  Felicity,  who 
knew  better,  was  often  irritated.  But,  unable  to 
restrain  herself  longer,  s.he  laid  her  head  on  the 
dressing-table  in  front  of  her  and  gave  way  to 
tears. 

"  Oh,  come,  dearest,  this  won't  do,"  soothed 
Vincent,  laying  an  arm  about  her  shoulder  and 
bending  low  so  his  cheek  lay  against  her  hair. 
"You're  tired  to  death,  poor  child!"  he  said,  "why 
don't  you  just  go  home  the  way  you  are,  without 
bothering  to  undress  and  dress  again?  Justine  can 
finish  here  and  let  Celeste  go  with  you.  Come 
on !  I'm  terribly  sorry  I  can't  go  with  you — if  I'd 
known  you  would  be  undone  like  this  I'd  never 
have  made  an  engagement,  but  I  owe  a  lot  to  these 
people  and  they're  waiting  for  me  at  the  Wal- 
dorf  " 

He  took  her  long  cloak  down  from  a  peg  and 
hung  it  about  her  shoulders.  Justine  handed  him 
a  lace  scarf  for  her  head. 

"  Come !  "  He  half  led,  half  carried  her  out  to 
the  stage  door,  where  Garvish  was  still  haranguing 
the  reporters,  trying  to  make  sure  of  favorable 

335 


Felicity 


space.  Celeste  followed,  carrying  Felicity's  street 
clothes. 

The  reporters,  who  had  come  to  ask  impertinent 
questions,  felt  they  would  not  need  to  ask  them, 
when  they  stood  aside  and  watched  Vincent  put 
his  evidently  weeping  wife  into  her  carriage 
with  her  maid  and  heard  him  give  the  order 
to  drive  home  quickly.  This  done,  he  had 
the  doorkeeper  call  a  cab  for  him,  and  urged  the 
driver  to  "  hustle — I've  guests  waiting  at  the 
Waldorf." 

Garvish  had  been  asked  to  the  supper,  but  ex- 
pressed himself  as  "  too  tired  of  life  to  eat." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Vincent,  "have  some  sand 
about  you !  " 

"  I  bet  you  change  your  tune  in  the  morning," 
was  Garvish's  unspoken  prediction  as  the  cab  with 
its  blithe  occupant  rolled  away. 

When  the  reporters  had  been  disposed  of — 
"  No,"  Garvish  assured  them,  "  there  is  posi- 
tively no  truth  in  the  report  that  Miss  Fergus  is 
playing  a  subordinate  part  and  starring  her  hus- 
band " — Garvish  betook  himself  moodily  to  a 
favorite  little  resort  unfrequented  by  theatrical 
folk;  and  there,  waiting  for  him  by  appointment, 
was  a  crony  of  well-tried  sympathy  into  whose  ear 
Garvish  poured  afresh  all  his  grievances. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  they  left  this  place,  but 
Garvish  declared  himself  so  little  inclined  for 

336 


Vigil 

sleep  that  the  very  idea  of  trying  made  him 
desperate.  He  proposed  a  walk,  and  the  crony 
agreed. 

Already,  in  the  quiet  streets,  the  air  was  be- 
ginning to  have  some  of  the  freshness  of  the 
dawn-breeze,  though  dawn  was  hours  away.  The 
overcharged  atmosphere  of  the  day,  with  its  dense, 
hurrying  throngs,  had  given  place  to  an  air  that 
blew  refreshingly  across  ample,  uncrowded  spaces. 
The  city  was  like  a  room  that  has  been  suffocat- 
ingly full  and  then  is  emptied  and  aired  and  sud- 
denly seems  spacious.  The  breaths  one  drew  were 
invigorating,  and  not  all  contaminated  with  smoke 
and  the  waste  gases  of  other  lungs.  It  was  possible 
to  swing  along  the  pavements  at  a  circulation- 
stirring  stride  without  running  down  pedestrians 
like  a  Juggernaut. 

Garvish,  who  always  asserted  that  he  could  not 
sleep  till  the  sun  was  shining,  loved  his  familiar, 
home  city  at  this  hour.  He  even  had  a  liking  for 
such  humanity  as  he  found  abroad  in  these  still, 
small  hours — felt  a  brotherliness  for  any  variety  of 
"  owl  "  from  a  belated  clubman  to  an  all-night 
cabby  or  "  Sandwich  Jack,"  from  a  newspaper  man 
going  home  late  to  a  newspaper  boy  getting  out 
early. 

Broadway  was  almost  lively,  for  a  Monday 
night,  as  they  strode  up  toward  Forty-second 
Street,  and  beyond.  Coming  back,  they  chose 

337 


Felicity 


Sixth  Avenue,  and  stopped  several  times  in  all- 
night  resorts.  It  was  past  three  when  they  reached 
Herald  Square,  and  damp,  ink-smelling  papers 
were  being  loaded  into  wagons  for  the  suburbs ;  the 
country  edition  had  gone,  an  hour  ago. 

"  Well,"  said  Garvish,  nervously,  "  here's  one 
paper;  let's  see  what  they  do  to  us." 

He  had  no  undue  reverence  for  newspaper  com- 
ment, but  he  knew  that  this  was  an  unusually 
"  ticklish  "  time  and  an  unusually  difficult  situation. 
People  were  not  spending  money  recklessly  this 
fall;  if  half  a  dozen  critics  agreed  that  the  new 
Fergus  play  was  a  poor  vehicle  for  her,  the  public 
would  stay  away — not  all  of  it,  of  course,  but 
that  large  body  of  it  which  makes  the  differ- 
ence between  poor  business  and  big  profits.  Of 
course  they  would  withdraw  the  failure  imme- 
diately, but  it  was  a  mighty  inauspicious  way  to 
begin. 

The  Herald  met  all  dire  expectations:  "Miss 
Fergus  opened  last  night  to  the  most  brilliant  audi- 
ence of  the  season,  in  a  play  so  unsuited  to  her 
talents  as  to  make  one  marvel  why  it  should  ever 
have  been  selected  for  their  exploitation.  We  had 
been  keyed  up,  by  cabled  reports  of  her  greatly 
matured  powers  as  a  comedienne,  to  expect  some- 
thing extraordinarily  gratifying,  and  were,  there- 
fore, the  more  keenly  disappointed  to  see  her  in  a 
play  that  practically  gave  her  no  chance.  The 

338 


Vigil 

play  is  not  a  bad  one,  but  wholly  unsuitable  for 
Miss  Fergus.  The  stellar  character  is  really  a 
male  one,  and  gave  Mr.  Delano  far  more  promi- 
nence than  Miss  Fergus.  If,  as  has  been  hinted, 
Miss  Fergus  was  well  aware  of  this,  she  cannot 
too  soon  be  made  to  recognize  her  error.  The 
public  goes  to  see  her  at  her  best,  not  to  help  her 
launch  a  new  favorite.  Much  has  been  written  of 
the  selfishness  of  theatrical  stars,  but  it  has  an 
abundant  justification  in  contrast  with  this  action 
of  Miss  Fergus's,  which  might,  if  one  were  in- 
clined for  brutal  frankness,  be  called  an  outright 
breach  of  good  faith  with  a  public  that  has  lav- 
ished favors  on  her  and  merits  a  better  expression 
of  her  gratitude." 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  in  the  same  vein; 
the  other  papers  took  practically  the  same  view. 
Even  the  dean  of  dramatic  critics,  who  had  been 
Felicity's  friend  from  her  childhood,  as  he  had 
been  the  ardent  friend  of  The  Old  Man,  did  not 
spare  her,  though  there  was  more  sorrow  than 
anger  expressed  in  his  comment.  Several  of  the 
younger  men's  critiques  carried  a  fair  implication 
of  malice,  Garvish  thought — that  little  outcrop- 
ping of  mean  spirit  with  which  some  persons  always 
hail  any  failure  of  the  great. 

Well — the  worst  was  come  to  worst!  It  re- 
mained only  to  bury  the  dead,  and  not  to  raise  a 
monument ! 

339 


Felicity 

In  her  big,  silent  house  on  Thirty-eighth  Street, 
«ast  of  Fifth  Avenue,  Felicity  sat,  wide  awake  and 
alone — more  terribly  alone  than  even  she  had  ever 
been,  who  was  alone  so  much. 

She  had  dismissed  the  fagged  Celeste  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers  sat  over 
the  log  fire  in  her  bedroom.  It  was  a  bitter 
night  for  her.  No  one  could  ever  know  what  she 
had  hoped  from  this  mad  venture — least  of  all 
Vincent,  for  whom  it  had  been  made.  The  world 
would  know  she  had  done  this  thing  to  give  him 
satisfaction,  but  it  would  never  know  how  much 
besides  a  little  professional  reputation  she  had 
risked,  and  to  what  ends. 

Success  was  worth  so  little  to  her,  she  reflected, 
she  could  well  afford  to  throw  a  little  of  it  away. 
It  brought  her  nothing  she  cared  about.  Certainly 
it  had  proved  no  aid  to  her  married  happiness. 
She  knew,  could  not  help  knowing,  there  were 
few  women  so  beautiful  as  she,  few  so  celebrated 
for  charm  and  talent,  few  on  whom  the  world  lav- 
ished so  much  favor.  Yet  Vincent  seemed  unmind- 
ful of  all  this.  He  showed  no  ardor  for  her 
society,  no  devotion  to  her  career;  he  took  her  for 
granted,  in  his  amiable,  irresponsible,  Vincent-way. 
He  had  none  of  the  yearning  over  her  that  men 
showed  for  women  who  were  plain  and  sick  and 
embittered  and  complaining;  that  Morton  had 
shown  for  poor  Sadie,  for  instance,  poor  Sadie 

340 


Vigil 

who  had  fretted  herself  quite  out  a  year  ago  and 
left  Morton — how?  Felicity  had  not  seen  him 
since  Sadie's  death,  and  she  wondered  about  him 
a  good  deal.  Her  gaze  travelled  from  the  fire  to 
the  vase  of  pink  roses  on  her  dresser — his  greet- 
ings and  good  wishes  for  the  return  to  America 
and  the  new  play.  He  never  forgot !  How  did  he 
feel?  Felicity  wondered.  She  had  never  seen 
such  tenderness  as  he  showed  Sadie.  And  yet ! — 
Felicity  could  recall  a  night  in  Chicago  before  she 
went  abroad  two  years  ago  last  spring,  another 
Sunday  night  when  she  spent  the  evening  in  the 
Allstons'  sitting-room  as  on  that  long-ago  night 
of  Adelaide  Walters's  funeral.  Sadie  was  there, 
blind  and  fretful,  taking  little  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion save  to  interrupt  it  now  and  then  with  some 
petulant  request.  Then,  somehow,  in  spite  of 
Sadie,  she  and  Morton  got  fairly  launched  on  one 
of  those  conversations  that  stand  out  sharply  in 
the  memory  forever  after  and  haunt  one  with  their 
unforgetable  wondrousness,  tease  one  with  their 
rarity;  soul  revealed  itself  to  soul,  not  in  words, 
wholly,  but  in  tones,  in  looks,  in  gestures,  in  very 
silences,  and  both  became  rapt  with  a  sense  of 
companionship  that  was  ecstasy.  In  the  midst  of 
this,  a  chance  question  of  Felicity's  brought  a  look 
to  Morton's  face — such  a  look !  She  shrank  from 
before  it  and  he — he  bent  his  head  in  shame  and 
covered  the  tell-tale  face  with  his  hands,  while 

341 


Felicity 


blind  Sadie  sat  by,  all  unconscious.  When  she 
broke  the  terrible  silence  with  a  request,  he  com- 
plied with  a  passionate  tenderness  that  seemed  to 
Felicity  the  acme  of  piteousness.  It  was  all  in  the 
briefest  instant,  and  afterwards  there  was  nothing 
to  show  that  it  ever  had  been,  but  Felicity  never 
forgot  the  mute  imploring  of  that  look,  never 
ceased  to  thrill  to  the  dramatic  intensity  of  that 
situation. 

Oh,  what  a  strange,  weary,  mixed-up  world  it 
was !  Morton  had  said  he  owed  more  to  Sadie 
than  he  could  ever  pay.  And  she?  what  was  the 
state  of  her  heart,  touching  Vincent?  Felicity  was 
able  to  take  pretty  good  account  of  herself — was 
used  to  searching  her  heart  for  the  answers  to  many 
burning  questions  about,  not  herself  only,  but 
others  whom  she  could  not  probe.  She  knew  she 
had  decided  to  risk  her  own  hold  on  success  to  give 
Vincent  the  chance  he  always  declared  was  all  he 
needed  to  establish  his  hold  on  a  like  success.  She 
knew  she  had  been  willing,  since  her  triumphs  did 
not  satisfy  him,  did  not  bind  him  to  her,  to  venture 
quite  madly  to  give  him,  if  possible,  triumphs  of 
his  own.  Why?  She  wanted  to  see  what  differ- 
ence it  would  make  in  him  if,  perchance,  he  did 
succeed.  She  was  tired  of  staying  always  above 
him,  in  wealth,  and  preferment,  and  acclaim  and 
everything  that  Vincent  cared  about.  It  was  a 
piteous  situation  for  a  woman,  and  almost  bound 

342 


Vigil 

to  be  debasing  to  the  man.  If  Vincent  could  sud- 
denly achieve  even  a  cheap  fame — and  a  cheap  one, 
she  knew,  would  satisfy  him  perfectly — what  alter- 
ation in  their  life  might  it  not  make?  At  least  she 
owed  it  to  him  to  try,  she  felt ;  at  least  she  ought  to 
give  him  an  opportunity  for  the  development  of 
those  qualities  success  breeds  in  a  man,  especially 
those  qualities  a  dominant  man  shows  to  his  mate. 
Perhaps  Vincent  would  be  tender  if  he  could  feel 
himself  triumphant !  God  knew  she  was  willing 
enough  to  take  second  place,  if  second  place 
brought  the  normal  order  of  things,  if  it  bred 
happiness  for  the  woman.  God  knew  she  had 
found  no  happiness  in  first  place. 

That  it  was  in  quest  of  happiness  for  herself 
much  more  than  for  Vincent,  Felicity  did  not  deny; 
that  it  was  what  she  hoped  to  gain  from  Vincent's 
pleasure  in  success,  more  than  any  mere  joy  of  see- 
ing him  gain  it,  she  faced  squarely — wishing,  the 
while,  that  it  were  not  so  possible  for  her  to  do  so. 
And  yet,  she  reflected,  her  motives  were  mixed 
enough,  since  after  five  years  of  married  life  with 
Vincent  she  could  still  scheme  and  devise  in  the 
hope  of  finding  the  happiness  she  sought  through 
him  rather  than  beyond  him  where  every  instinct 
told  her  it  must  lie. 

What  was  it?  this  mercilessly  unidealistic  under- 
standing of  Vincent  and  of  herself,  and  of  his  atti- 
tude toward  her  and  her  attitude  toward  him,  and 

343 


Felicity 

yet,  in  spite  of  all,  this  continued  effort  to  find 
happiness  with  him  even  at  great  cost. 

That  she  responded  readily,  nearly  always,  to 
the  magnetism  of  his  personal  charm,  was  a  simple 
enough  matter  for  her  understanding.  Also,  she 
could  see  quite  clearly  how  it  was  possible  for 
Vincent  to  feel  when  he  was  with  her,  as  he  cer- 
tainly did,  her  charm,  and  yet  feel  other  charms 
just  as  enjoyably  when  they  came  his  way.  Felicity 
did  not  grudge  him  this  ability — not  now.  She 
was  not  jealous,  which  she  took  to  be  indisputable 
evidence  she  was  not  in  love.  And  yet,  interest- 
edly as  she  watched  Vincent,  and  speculated  about 
him  and  learned  through  him,  she  was  capable 
of  keen  hurt  every  time  he  signally  failed  her  as 
he  had  to-night.  It  mattered  not  a  whit  to  her 
with  whom  he  was,  but  that  he  was  willing  to 
leave  her  alone  in  her  defeat  and  chagrin !  that 
was  galling — not  because  he  could  conceivably 
have  been  of  much  comfort  to  her,  but  because 
he  showed  no  willingness,  after  all  her  sacrifice 
for  him,  to  do  for  her  what  he  could.  Yes! — 
and  because  people,  a  great  many  people,  would 
see  him  at  the  Waldorf  with  his  gay  party,  of 
which  he  would  be  the  gayest,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing they  would  know  of  the  night's  disaster,  and 
could  deduce  from  his  conduct  only  disrespect  of 
her — of  her !  whom  all  the  world  but  her  husband 
honored.  It  was  intolerable  ! 

344 


Vigil 

When  she  was  on  the  crest  of  the  success  wave, 
Vincent's  habitual  appearance  at  gayeties  without 
her  was  marked  enough,  but  people  had  grown 
used  to  the  idea  that  she  hoarded  her  beauty  and 
cherished  her  strength  with  jealous  care.  And 
they  knew,  as  well,  that  Vincent  was  convivial. 
They  might  whisper  of  disparity  in  tastes,  but 
there  was  plenty  in  Felicity's  public  life  with  Vin- 
cent to  give  the  lie  to  any  suspicions  of  their 
unhappiness.  But  to-night!  How  could  any  one 
help  pitying  her  to-night?  And  to-night,  as  on 
only  a  few  other  occasions  of  her  phenomenally 
successful  career,  Felicity  became  aware  how  she 
dreaded  the  public's  pity.  Clo  Detmar's  words 
kept  recurring  to  her:  There  were  "heaps  of 
people" — were  there? — who  would  be  glad  to 
read  of  her  ill-fated  play.  Ah !  that  was  horrible 
enough,  but  one  poor  play  made  small  havoc  with 
fortunes  so  great,  fame  so  wide  as  hers.  Every- 
body met  with  misadventure  in  the  choice  of  plays, 
and  the  distressing  fact  was  soon  forgotten.  The 
horror  that  worse  haunted  her  was  that  it  should 
be  found  out  how  she  had  made  wreck  of  her  life, 
irreparable  wreck — she,  who  was  so  envied  for  all 
that  Fortune  had  lavished  on  her ! 

Felicity  was  not  without  a  whimsical  sense  of 
her  own  inconsistency.  She  expressed  impatience 
with  the  world  for  its  envy  of  her — for  not  know- 
ing that  Fortune's  gifts,  like  all  others,  must  be 

345 


Felicity 


paid  for  in  full — and  yet  she  shrank  with  quivering 
horror  from  the  world's  knowledge  of  her  great 
defeat.  She  smiled  at  herself,  sometimes,  with 
all  the  amused  delight  in  the  world  for  this  beauti- 
fully human  inconsistency;  she  had  learned  early, 
under  The  Old  Man's  teaching,  that  inconsistency 
is  the  keynote  of  human  nature,  and  the  ability  to 
reckon  with  it  as  such  the  beginning  of  genius. 
But  to-night!  Oh,  to-night  she  was  not  in  smil- 
ing mood.  To-night  she  was  sitting  with  clenched 
hands  and  her  beautiful  mouth  piteously  set,  as 
if  by  the  very  might  of  her  imperious  defiance 
she  would  ward  off  that  pity  which  to  her  was 
ignominy. 

"I  won't  have  it!"  she  sobbed,  "I  won't 
have  it!" 

Then  she  heard  a  cab  roll  up,  heard  Vincent's 
key  in  the  door,  heard  him  coming  up  the  stairs, 
heard  him  talking  to  his  man,  who  had  been  doz- 
ing by  the  fire.  In  a  few  minutes  she  heard  Peters 
go  upstairs  to  his  own  quarters.  She  opened  the 
door  between  Vincent's  room  and  hers  and  went 
in  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed.  Vincent  had 
been  drinking,  of  course,  but  he  was  not  drunk — 
only  very  sleepy,  after  having  been  very  gay.  He 
was  almost  asleep  when  Felicity  touched  him. 

''  What  is  it?  "  he  murmured,  drowsily. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  u  I  was  awake,  and  I 
came  in  to  say  good-night." 

346 


Vigil 

"  Good-night,  dearest,"  returned  Vincent,  cheer- 
fully, and  dozed  oft  again. 

Back  in  her  room,  Felicity  debated  whether  she 
should  lay  a  fresh  log  on  the  embers,  or  creep  into 
bed.  Oh,  anything  but  bed — to  lie  and  stare  into 
the  dark  and  see  horrid  shapes  and  toss  in  writhing 
inability  to  escape  from  them !  So  she  laid  two 
logs  on  her  fire  and  drew  her  big  chair  closer  to  it. 
In  the  leaping  flame-light  she  could  see  the  clock- 
face  ;  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock. 

Her  whole  mind  being  on  the  thing  she  dreaded, 
it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder  if  Vincent  had  got 
an  early  paper.  He  could  not  have  been  in  the 
Waldorf  to  this  hour;  he  must  have  been  over 
among  the  all-night  resorts  where  the  newspaper 
men  stopped  on  their  way  uptown,  bringing  early 
copies  of  the  papers  with  them. 

She  got  up  and  stole  into  Vincent's  room  again, 
feeling  about  in  the  semi-dark  of  the  firelight 
until  she  found  what  she  sought.  Vincent  did  not 
stir. 

She  turned  up  the  light  in  her  room.  Yes,  it 
was  The  Herald,  and  it  was  refolded  with  the 
dramatic  comment  outside.  Vincent  had  read  it, 
evidently.  Felicity  read  it  twice — the  second  time 
as  if  to  make  sure  she  read  aright.  Then  she 
turned  the  gas  down,  away  down,  again — the  dark 
seemed  her  first  craving — and  threw  herself,  tense 
with  passion,  full-length  on  the  hearth-rug.  With 

347 


Felicity 

an  almost  intolerable  physical  ache,  her  body  re- 
sponded to  the  anguish  of  her  mind. 

"  I  can't  bear  it!  "  Self-pity  came  first,  and  she 
wept  for  herself  in  this  vigil  so  piteous.  Not  a 
soul  on  earth  to  stand  by  her  in  such  an  hour  as 
this!  Then  defiance  flamed  again.  "  I  won't  bear 
it !  "  she  cried,  through  clenched  teeth. 

With  this,  she  got  up  and  bathed  her  tear- 
swollen  face,  warming  her  cold  hands  in  the  same 
act.  Then  she  went  resolutely  to  bed.  Unim- 
paired beauty,  redoubled  spirits — these  were  the 
bulwarks  of  her  defence;  with  them,  only,  could 
she  keep  at  bay  the  enemy  she  dreaded  worse  than 
death. 


348 


CHAPTER    XXI 

VINCENT   IS    "  MADE    SQUARE  " 

THE  public  memory  for  disaster  is  short-lived 
and  easily  effaced  by  a  little  subsequent 
success.  Felicity  found  the  nine-days'  wonder 
over  her  ill-starred  venture  hard  to  bear — though 
less  so  than  she  had  anticipated — and  then  a  new 
order  came  treading  on  its  heels;  her  return  to 
the  old  repertoire  met  with  loud  acclaim,  and  the 
whole  incident  of  the  unsuccessful  play  seemed 
closed,  all  but  forgotten.  Even  Vincent  appeared 
quite  satisfied,  quite  unregretful,  quite  sure  that, 
somehow  or  other,  the  chance  he  had  had  was  not 
the  chance  he  had  needed — that  was  still  to  come. 
Felicity  marvelled  at  his  buoyancy,  at  his  atti- 
tude toward  the  whole  thing  as  a  trifle  that  mat- 
tered little,  one  way  or  the  other.  But  so  did 
Garvish  marvel  at  Felicity  herself.  She  seemed 
to  take  the  disaster  almost  flippantly,  save  that 
underneath  her  shrugging  disclaimer  of  hurt  from 
the  mishap,  Garvish  felt  sure  he  could  detect  a 
determination  even  in  excess  of  any  she  had  ever 
shown,  to  win  her  public  with  her  resumption  of  the 
old  roles. 

349 


Felicity 


She  did  win.  She  played  with  such  zest,  such 
understanding,  such  witchery  of  charm,  as  left 
her  quite  exhausted  after  each  performance  but 
brought  the  houses  almost  literally  about  her  ears. 
The  audiences  laughed,  they  cried,  they  laughed 
again.  She  fairly  shook  them  with  pleasurable 
emotions,  and  entranced  them  so  with  the  famous 
smile  that  they  turned  to  her  as  the  chief  of  all 
delights  that  beguiled  dull  care  away,  that  autumn 
when  panic  was  in  the  air  and  tainted  every  breath 
one  drew. 

So  Garvish  smiled  again,  and  even  the  most 
grudging  critics  turned  praiseful — however  they 
qualified  the  praise  they  could  not  withhold,  with 
complaints  against  Felicity  for  things  she  was  not 
and  never  aspired  to  be. 

"  So-and-So  can  never  forgive  me  for  not  essay- 
ing Shakespearian  comedy,"  she  told  Joe  Jefferson 
one  day  when  she  met  him  in  Twenty-third  Street, 
and  they  turned  into  the  Eden  Musee,  partly  to 
talk  and  partly  to  watch  delightedly  the  wonder- 
ing crowds  among  the  waxworks,  to  stand  agape 
before  "  Ajeeb  "  and  speculate  where  the  chess 
expert  was  who  manipulated  the  cunning  deception. 

"  The  same  fellow  can  never  forgive  me  for  not 
playing  (Edipus  Tyrannus  or  The  Baccha!  Don't 
you  mind  'em,  my  dear!  Look  at  what  they 
do  to  me  for  sticking  to  '  Rip  '  and  not  trying  Fal- 
staff  and  Bluebeard ;  for  not  dying,  when  they  had 

350 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

said,  a  year  ago,  that  the  public  was  probably  enjoy- 
ing its  last  opportunity  to  see  me.  Poor  cusses! 
how'd  the  public  know  they'd  ever  heard  of  Sopho- 
cles and  Shakespeare,  if  they  didn't  abuse  you  an' 
me  for  not  playing  'em?  " 

On  the  road,  to  which  the  company  did  not  take 
till  nearly  spring,  the  success  of  the  tour  amounted 
to  a  series  of  triumphs.  Everybody  was  in  good 
spirits,  for  it  is  fun  to  play  to  enthusiasm,  and 
even  the  continuous  grumbling  of  actor-folk  on 
the  road  was  punctuated  with  seasons  of  fine  good 
humor — especially  since  they  made  few  short 
stands,  skipping  all  such  places  as  Vincent  desig- 
nated "  Chocolate  Eclair,"  "  Fondle  Lake," 
and  "  Oshkosh,  Wish.,"  and  kept  to  the  principal 
cities  where  living  was  good  and  fun  was  plenty. 

The  bitter  experience  in  New  York  seemed  never 
to  have  been  heard  of  beyond  Broadway,  except 
here  and  there  by  a  critic  who  took  a  theatrical 
journal  or  two,  and  who  mentioned  the  New  York 
failure  as  proof  of  his  unforgetting  "  postedness." 
Only  Felicity  carried  the  scars  of  that  fight.  She 
hid  them  jealously,  but  like  many  another  with 
unsuspected  scars,  she  almost  gloated  over  them  in 
secret. 

The  quickness,  nay,  the  very  eagerness,  of  those 
who  praised  when  they  must,  to  blame  when  they 
could,  had  hurt  her  cruelly.  Artistically,  she  had 
so  quickly  recovered  herself  as  to  leave  scant  room 

351 


Felicity 


for  harsh  criticism  unless  it  were  of  the  sort  that 
is  obviously  malicious,  which  she  had  been  well 
taught  to  despise.  Here  and  there,  always,  was 
some  one  she  had  refused  to  sup  with,  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  his  friends,  and  who  paid  her  for  her 
indifference  or  her  weariness  or  her  heaviness  of 
heart  or  frailty  of  health — not  caring  for  which 
of  many  reasons  she  might  have  declined  to  pander 
to  his  lion-hunting  pride — in  contemptuous  print. 
But  these  things,  save  as  they  fretted  Garvish,  she 
cared  little  about,  being  keen  enough  to  know  that 
readers  could  and  would  discount  them  as  readily 
as  she. 

She  had  never  been  very  much  upraised  or  cast- 
down  by  press  comment  on  her  work;  The  Old 
Man  had  provided  against  that.  The  conscious- 
ness that  there  were  not  a  half  dozen  critics  in 
the  country  who  knew  a  tithe  of  what  she  herself 
knew  of  the  things  she  essayed,  made  her  interest 
in  either  praise  or  blame  very  slight;  the  inexorable 
judge  for  her,  as  for  all  artists,  was  the  dream  of 
perfection  she  carried  in  her  own  breast — the 
dream,  so  much  more  wonderful,  always,  than  its 
best  manifestation  that  its  elusiveness  was  near  to 
torment. 

But  when  public  comment  went  past  her  work 
and  touched  herself,  her  personality,  her  private 
life,  she  flamed  with  all  the  world-old  resentment 
of  the  achieving  when  that  fame  they  have  fought 

352 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

for  will  not  nicely  differentiate  between  desirable 
and  undesirable  publicity,  and  the  soul's  sacredness 
becomes  pilloried  on  the  same  eminence  that  uplifts 
successful  talents  to  the  world's  view. 

That  any  one  should  dare  to  probe  beyond  the 
ill-choice  of  a  play  and  ascribe  its  selection  to  her 
desire  to  please  her  husband — yes,  even,  in  some 
grosser  instances,  to  hint  at  her  need  of  pleasing 
him — that  was  a  very  agony  of  fame!  And  the 
new  knowledge  of  that  spirit  dogging  her,  follow- 
ing with  keen  eyes  her  success  as  sharks  follow  a 
ship  hopeful  of  disaster,  threatened  to  become  an 
obsession  as,  at  other  times  in  the  inner  history 
of  her  ascendency,  the  horror  of  age  and  decay  had 
been,  and  the  piteousness  of  being  gay  while  sick 
at  heart,  and  the  sense  of  cruel  isolation  from  the 
common  lot  that  she  might  cater  to  the  common 
enjoyment.  One  by  one  she  had  suffered  the  pen- 
alties of  her  success;  and  when  she  had  learned  to 
be  philosophical  about  one,  another  one  grew  unen- 
durable— as  if  that  she  might  continue  in  her  expe- 
rience the  long-ago  sufficient  evidence  that  hearts 
at  ease  never  attain  heights. 

In  April,  they  arrived  in  Chicago  to  play  a 
month's  engagement.  There  was  a  balm  like 
summer  in  the  air,  as  there  often  is  in  April  in 
this  capricious  climate  where  birds  and  buds  are 
tricked  into  thinking  the  melancholy  days  are  past 
and  then,  presto !  in  five  minutes  old  Boreas  blows 

353 


Felicity 


slantwise  across  the  lake  again,  "  the  white  sea 
horses  troop  and  roam  "  on  the  blue  that  just  now 
shimmered  like  satin  on  a  woman's  gently  heaving 
breast,  and  the  weather  man  in  his  aerie  croaks 
"  Frost,  to-night !  " 

Morton's  floral  greeting  was  in  Felicity's  rooms 
when  she  arrived,  late  Sunday  afternoon,  from  St. 
Louis;  and  that  evening  he  called.  So,  too,  did  a 
lot  of  other  people — two  or  three  dramatic  critics, 
the  proprietor  of  a  prominent  newspaper,  half  a 
dozen  actor-folk  playing  in  town,  the  manager  of 
the  theatre  Felicity  was  to  play  in,  and  so  on, 
including  several  "  smart "  people  who  wished  to 
tender  functions  to  Felicity,  and  a  college  president 
who  looked  incredulous  when  she  refused  his  invi- 
tation to  address  his  college  on  "  Woman  and  the 
Comedy  Spirit,"  saying  she  should  die  of  fright  if 
she  had  to  "  stand  up  with  my  Sunday  clothes  on 
and  talk  out  in  meeting." 

There  was  not  much  opportunity  for  conversa- 
tion with  Morton,  whom  alone  of  all  the  little 
crowd  she  cared  to  see  and  who,  alone  of  all  the 
little  crowd,  cared  anything  for  her  aside  from  her 
success. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  night,  isn't  it?  "  she  said,  as  he 
held  her  hand  a  moment,  in  taking  leave. 

The  question  seemed  a  little  irrelevant,  a  little 
odd  for  Felicity,  who  was  not  given  to  talking 
about  the  weather  if  the  extent  of  her  acquaintance 

354 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

permitted  anything  more  interesting.  But  Mor- 
ton saw,  and  rightly  interpreted  her  glance,  which 
roved  restlessly  over  the  brilliantly  lighted  rooms, 
with  their  profusion  of  flowers  and  their  chattering 
groups. 

"  I  wish,"  she  whispered,  "  we  could  skip  all  this 
and  sit  out  on  a  park  bench,  '  under  the  wide  and 
starry  sky,'  and — talk!  " 

"  I  wish  we  could !  "  he  echoed,  smiling  at  the 
hopelessness  of  it. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  in  years,"  she  said,  "  and — 
and  so  much  has  happened." 

'  To  me,  yes,"  he  answered,  soberly. 

"And  tome!" 

"  Ah,  to  you,  yes !  More  crowns,  more  incense, 
more " 

"  Oh,  please !  Et  tu,  Brute!  I  can't  stand  it 
from  you  too." 

"  Forgive  me !  I  wish  I  could  offer  you  some- 
thing— something  out  of  this  stifling,  incense-heavy 
air — to  make  your  stay  here  pleasant.  But  I  don't 
know  what  it  could  be " 

"  Come  and  see  me,  when  you  can.  There's 
not  much  time,  I  know — you're  busy  all  day  and 
I'm  busy  all  the  evening,  but  you  might  take  early 
dinner  with  us  some  night,  or  luncheon  any  day  but 
Saturday;  and  I'll  try  to  avoid  this,"  indicating 
with  the  slightest  nod  of  her  head  the  crowded 
rooms,  "  next  Sunday." 

355 


Felicity 


Vincent  clapped  Morton  heartily  on  the  back 
as  he  said  good-night  to  him.  He  felt  that  Mor- 
ton did  not  like  him,  but  Vincent  cherished  no 
grudges.  So  many  people  did  like  him  that  he 
could  only  feel  sorry  for  those  who  did  not,  as  if 
the  fault  must  lie  in  their  own  churlishness  since  it 
could  not  possibly  lie  in  his  good  nature. 

"  Glad  to've  seen  you,  old  man,"  Vincent 
assured  him,  "  you  must  dine  with  us  some  evening 
soon." 

Morton  thanked  him  and  was  gone,  with  one 
backward  look  at  Felicity,  who  seemed,  somehow, 
so  incongruously  placed  in  the  little  throng  of  chat- 
tering people  Vincent  loved  to  have  about  him. 
All  she  ever  asked  for  enjoyment  was  a  bit  of  isola- 
tion for  two — anywhere  that  conduced  to  "  talk  of 
thee  and  me  and  this  mad  world,  my  masters," — 
and  that  thing  alone  Fate  seemed  to  grudge  her. 

Vincent  ordered  supper  at  eleven  o'clock  and 
asked  the  lingerers  to  stay.  Felicity  was  very 
tired,  but  felt  she  could  not  withdraw,  so  she  sat 
through  the  supper  with  what  grace  she  could 
summon,  eating  only  a  nibble  of  cracker  now  and 
then  and  taking  a  sip  of  wine. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  last  guest  left, 
and  their  sitting-room  was  chokingly  close  with 
cigarette  smoke  and  heavy,  thrice-breathed  air. 
Felicity  directed  the  waiter  who  cleared  away  the 
supper  things,  to  throw  both  windows  wide  open. 

356 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

A  tide  of  cool,  sweet  air  rushed  in;  even  the  heart 
of  the  city,  with  the  belching  smokestacks  of  en- 
gines not  a  block  away,  had  a  caressing  softness  in 
its  air  to-night,  and  Felicity  leaned  out  to  enjoy  the 
freshness.  Michigan  Avenue  was  nearly  deserted, 
and  from  her  bay  window  she  could  look  far  south 
to  where  the  long  lines  of  boulevard  lamps  seemed 
to  converge  on  the  edge  of  infinitude.  Turning 
from  the  window  with  a  quick,  nervous  movement, 
she  confronted  Vincent,  who  was  lighting  a  fresh 
cigarette. 

"  I  want  to  go  out,"  she  said. 

"  Out  where?  "  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  For  a  walk — anywhere,  to  get  out  of  these 
stuffy  rooms!  " 

"  But  you  said  you  were  so  tired  you  could 
hardly  breathe !  " 

"  I  am ;  but  I  can't  sleep.  All  those  people 
made  me  wildly  nervous.  I  niust  get  out." 

Vincent  looked  dismayed.  Felicity  had  some 
uncomfortable  habits  when  she  got  out  on  occa- 
sions of  this  sort;  she  liked  to  go  out  on  the  Van 
Buren  Street  viaduct,  for  instance,  and  hang  over 
the  parapet  by  the  half  hour,  watching  the  red  and 
green  lights  of  the  switches  and  the  long  lines  of 
steel  rails  shining  dimly  in  the  gloom  or  brightly 
in  the  glare  of  an  engine  headlight;  or  she  would 
wander  out  past  the  multitudinous  tracks  to  the 
breakwater,  and  sit  down  by  the  lake,  watching  the 

357 


Felicity 

revolving  lights  in  the  Government  lighthouse,  and 
the  rhythmic  riding  at  anchor  of  the  fleet  of  tiny 
yachts.  Vincent  cordially  disliked  both  these 
pastimes,  and  he  tried  to  dissuade  Felicity  from 
her  present  purpose,  whatever  it  might  be.  But 
she  was  insistent.  She  had,  however,  no  such  pur- 
pose as  Vincent  dreaded;  the  very  thought  of  trying 
to  enjoy  those  odd  pleasures  of  hers  with  Vincent 
chafing  at  her  side  would  have  been  maddening. 
All  she  wanted  was  air  and  movement — mere  out- 
let for  her  restlessness,  not  such  positive  delights 
of  companionship  as  Vincent,  she  now  knew  too 
well,  could  not  give  her. 

"  I'm  dog-tired,  dear  girl,"  he  pleaded. 

"  You  never  went  to  bed  at  this  time  in  your 
life,"  she  declared. 

11  Yes,  I  did— at  Fair  View !  " 

"  But  not  before,  nor  since,"  she  laughed. 
"  Please,  Vincent,"  she  went  to  him  and  laid  a 
hand  on  his  arm,  "  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter 
with  me,  dear,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  should  smother 
if  I  don't  get  out." 

"  Unhand  me,  wretch !  "  he  retorted,  lightly, 
lifting  her  hand  to  his  lips;  "  you  have  no  bowels 
of  mercy,  woman !  You  know  that  when  you  come 
and  lay  your  hand  on  your  poor,  old,  '  wore-out ' 
husband,  you  can  make  him  do  anything.  I  can't 
see  why  you  don't  play  Lady  Macbeth — you're  so 
persuasive.  Hark !  *  I  hear  a  knocking !  '  He 

358 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

mimicked  Lady  Macbeth's  manner  when  Mac- 
duff's  persistent  summons  at  the  gate  is  heard,  so 
that  Felicity  shivered. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  she  begged,  "  you  make  me  creep, 
all  over !  "  Then  they  both  laughed,  and  got  their 
hats  and  coats  without  waking  either  maid  or  man, 
dozing  on  duty. 

Out  on  the  broad,  deserted  avenue  they  turned 
south  and  wandered,  at  a  straggling  gait,  for  a 
half  mile  or  so,  encountering  fewer  than  a  dozen 
persons  on  the  way.  When  they  turned  to  go 
back,  Vincent  said: 

"  Let's  go  over  to  Wabash,  and  walk  back  on 
that;  it's  the  border  of  the  Tenderloin,  but  any- 
thing's  better  than  this — graveyard !  " 

She  acquiesced,  and  they  went  through  the  first 
cross  street  to  Wabash  Avenue,  where  a  multitude 
of  saloons  were  still  open  and  many  other  signs 
indicated  that  the  Red  Light  district  was  far  from 
somnolence. 

Felicity  should  not  have  gone  there;  it  interested 
her  intensely,  but  she  always  lay  awake  for  hours 
after  a  glimpse  of  sights  like  these.  Used  as  she 
was,  in  a  way,  to  the  squalid  tragedies  of  a  part 
of  stageland,  and  worldly-wise  as  her  mental  atti- 
tude toward  the  besetting  sins  had  been  since  her 
very  childhood,  she  retained  a  great  deal  of  instinc- 
tive horror,  not  of  debased  human  nature  so  much 
as  over  it.  She  did  not  wonder  that  flesh  was 

359 


Felicity 

weak,  did  not  incline  to  blame  it  for  its  weakness, 
but  the  pitilessness  of  the  fate  that  rewarded  weak- 
ness always  left  her  with  a  sense  as  of  having  seen 
foolish,  helpless  things  mangled  by  a  monster. 
Once,  after  a  tour  of  San  Francisco's  Chinatown, 
she  had  a  dream  in  which  she  seemed  to  see  a  head, 
like  that  of  a  Chinese  dragon  colossally  magni- 
fied, filling  the  end  of  a  short  street  down  which 
wandered,  ceaselessly,  a  stream  of  young  girls,  each 
of  whom,  as  she  reached  him,  the  behemoth  swal- 
lowed with  one  click  of  his  awful  jaws.  She  had 
waked  up  crying,  "  Oh,  why  don't  they  stop  com- 
ing? "  And  the  dream  was  so  vivid  that  it  always 
recurred  to  her  when  she  saw  into  the  underworld 
of  the  engulfed. 

Vincent  saw  her  shudder  as  two  very  young  girls, 
probably  the  cheaper  type  of  shop  girls,  lurched 
past  them,  leering  drunk,  and  in  charge  of  two 
evil-looking  youths  of  nineteen  or  twenty. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  brought  you  here,"  he  said, 
penitently;  "  I  ought  to  have  remembered  how  it 
hurts  you!  Come,  we'll  go  back  to  Michigan 
Avenue  through  the  next  street." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  feel,"  she  said,  "  to  have 
such  horror  of  these  things  and  yet  be  able  to  do 
nothing  but  shudder  and  be  led  gently  away.  It 
seems  as  if  a  woman  as  old  as  I  am,  who's  had  as 
much  experience  of  the  world  as  I  have  had,  ought 
to  be  able  to  do  something  more  for  a  girl  like  that 

360 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

than  just  to  moan  over  her  after  she's  brushed  past 
me  on  her  way  to — God  knows  what !  " 

"  My  God,  no !  "  Vincent  answered,  almost 
roughly.  '  You  don't  know  anything  about  it, 
and  you  couldn't  do  any  more  to  stop  it  than  you 
could  to  dam  Niagara.  Forget  it!  That's  all  you 
can  do." 

Felicity  looked  up  at  him  as  he  spoke,  and 
thrilled,  vaguely,  to  the  tone  of  his  voice,  the  look 
in  his  face — both  expressing  the  sense  of  desecra- 
tion he  felt  at  the  bare  suggestion  of  her  in  contact 
with  that  baser  world  he  knew  too  well  to  be  able 
to  think  of  without  horror  at  her  touching  it.  She 
knew  that  Vincent  was  not  always  "  up  to  her,"  as 
he  said;  that  there  were  times,  a-plenty,  when  his 
mood  demanded  freer  company;  but  always  he 
was  reverent  of  that  in  her  which  was  better  than 
he  aspired  to  be;  always  he  was  fiercely  jealous  of 
that  goodness  in  her  which  seemed  to  him  to  re- 
flect honor  back  on  him,  too,  in  some  mysterious 
way.  And  since  she  had  ceased  looking,  in  Vin- 
cent, for  a  continuous  matching  of  his  mood  with 
hers — and  alas  !  in  spite  of  all  her  professed  philos- 
ophy before  marriage,  she  had  done  this  very  thing, 
after  marriage,  for  a  piteous  while — she  had 
known  a  good  deal  of  tender  pride  in  these  occa- 
sional moments  when  she  felt  that  notwithstanding 
his — well,  his  difference — Vincent  was  bound  to 
her  by  a  very  great  tie.  He  was  not  worthy  of 

361 


Felicity 


her,  he  said  quite  frankly  and  often,  and  perhaps 
he  did  not  try  to  be.  But  in  his  own  way  he  loved 
her  as  he  had  never  loved  and  never  could  love 
any  one  else.  It  was  not  a  ministering  love — ah, 
dear  no !  Poor  Vincent  had  not  even  a  suspicion 
of  what  that  might  be,  beyond  opening  doors  and 
fetching  shawls,  maybe ;  it  was  not  born  of  tender- 
ness— success  had  held  tenderness  at  bay — but  it 
was  reverent.  No  woman  will  choose  reverence 
if  she  can  get  tenderness,  but  Felicity  was  glad  to 
get  what  she  could,  what  her  success  allowed  her, 
and  her  eyes  shone  with  happy  tears  as  she  looked 
up  at  Vincent.  He  read  the  look  and  smiled  down 
at  her,  patting  the  hand  that  lay  on  his  arm.  Sud- 
denly she  clutched  his  sleeve. 

"What  is  it?  "he  asked. 

She  seemed  speechless  with  excitement  for  a 
moment,  then  she  said,  "  Ashley — Jack  Ashley;  I 
saw  him  go  in  there,"  she  pointed,  "  and  Arline 
Prentiss  was  with  him." 

"  Who  was  with  him?  " 

"  Arline  Prentiss — that  little  girl  who  played 
with  me  once;  she  was  the  girl  I  took  to  Yonkers 
that  day — you  met  her  with  me  in  Delmonico's." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  her  if  she's  fallen  in  with 
Jack  Ashley,"  said  Vincent,  greatly  relieved  to 
trace  her  agitation  to  nothing  worse. 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  knows  about  him — oh, 
isn't  it  terrible  that  he  should  be  at  large  in  the 

362 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

world,  wrecking  women's  lives?  Poor  Clo  told 
me  such  awful  things  she  suffered.  And  now,  God 
knows  where  she  is — in  some  Potter's  Field,  proba- 
bly I — and  he's  here  with  that  nice  girl !  " 

"Oh,  come,  darling!  I  wouldn't  worry  about 
it.  The  girl's  old  enough  now  to  know  what  she's 
doing — it's  six  years  since  she  was  with  you,  remem- 
ber. And  everybody  knows  what  Ashley  is;  she 
can't  be  the  one  person  alive  who  doesn't  know 
he's  a  villain." 

This  was  soundly  reasonable,  yet  Felicity  lay 
awake  for  hours,  till  the  early  dawn  was  breaking, 
haunted  by  the  horror  of  Arline  Prentiss's  undoing. 

In  the  morning,  early,  she  got  Mr.  Leffler  by 
'phone,  and  told  him  to  find  out  if  Arline  was  play- 
ing with  any  company  in  town,  and  if  he  could 
locate  her  to  ask  her  if  she  would  not  call  on  Miss 
Fergus.  Then  she  went  back  to  bed  and  slept  till 
noon. 

Vincent  joined  her  at  luncheon — his  breakfast, 
always,  hers,  too,  today — and  she  told  him  what 
she  had  done.  He  was  displeased. 

"  Hang  it,  Felicity,"  he  began,  crossly,  "  you 
can't  meddle  in  people's  affairs  like  that !  They're 
not  minors,  and  you're  not  their  guardian.  I  know 
you  mean  well,  but  it's  a  confounded  impertinence, 
don't  you  know !  " 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "  It  would  be  a  confounded 
impertinence,  I  suppose,  if  I  saw  Arline  driving 

363 


Felicity 


toward  an  open  draw  in  the  river,  here,  and  called 
to  her  to  look  out?  " 

"It  isn't  the  same,"  he  retorted;  "the  law 
doesn't  allow  people  to  kill  themselves — you  have 
to  stop  them  if  you  can — but  it  grants  them  the 
perfect  right  to  go  to  the  devil." 

"  Well,  there's  a  law  that  doesn't — a  better  law  ! 
I  couldn't  do  anything  for  those  poor  creatures  we 
saw  last  night,  but  I  can  do  something  for  Arline — 
I  can  save  her  from  worse  harm,  if  it's  too  late  to 
save  her  from  harm  altogether." 

"  You're  probably  too  late,  now,  to  save  her 
from  anything,  I  tell  you — she  wouldn't  have  been 
in  that  district  with  a  man  of  Ashley's  reputation 
at  that  hour  of  night,  if  she  had  any  '  saving  '  in 
her.  And  you'll  get  your  head  in  your  hand, 
probably,  for  meddling  with  Jack  Ashley;  you 
know  he's  a  nasty  fellow,  and  loves  a  fight." 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  him,"  defiantly;  "  are  you?  " 

"  You  know  I'm  not !  I  can  lick  two  of  him 
with  one  hand.  But  you,  who  are  always  talking 
about  the  responsibility  you  owe  your  managers 
and  your  company  and  your  public ! —  What  right 
do  you  figure  out  that  you  have  to  tamper  with  the 
dirty  passions  of  a  brute  like  Ashley?  " 

Felicity  had  never  seen  Vincent — easy-going, 
habitually  good-natured  Vincent — so  angry.  But 
she  persisted  in  her  determination,  and  he  went 
out,  raging. 

364 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

'  This  is  what  comes  of  marrying  a  woman  with 
money  and  fame  and  all  the  things  that  make  her 
perfectly  independent  of  you,"  he  told  himself,  as 
he  strode  up  Michigan  Avenue;  "  if  she  were  really 
my  wife,  I  could  have  some  control  of  her,  for  her 
own  safety  and  good!  As  it  is,  I'm  nothing  but 
a — a  kind  of  thing  she  tolerates  as  long  as  I  don't 
cross  her — like  Leffler!  I  know  Jack  Ashley — 
dirty  dog!  And  I  know  he's  no  man  for  her  to 
meddle  with.  My  God !  " 

He  stopped,  abruptly,  as  a  horrible  thought 
struck  him ;  then  retraced  his  steps,  almost  running, 
and  was  back  at  the  hotel  before  he  reflected  that 
Jack  Ashley  could  not  possibly  know,  yet,  what 
Felicity  designed,  even  if  word  had  been  got  to 
Arline  Prentiss. 

Angry  at  Felicity,  rather  than  at  himself,  for 
his  needless  terror,  he  thought,  first,  he  would  go 
upstairs  and  "  have  it  out  with  her  " — threaten 
her  with  whatever  authority  he  could  muster,  plead 
with  her,  maybe,  anything  to  make  her  see  the 
error  of  her  resolve.  But  while  he  pondered,  he 
saw  Arline  Prentiss  go  up  to  the  desk  in  the  office 
and,  presumably,  ask  for  Miss  Fergus. 

That  determined  him.  There  would  be  no  time, 
now,  to  argue  with  Felicity,  with  the  Prentiss  girl, 
knocking  at  the  door.  So  he  turned  on  his  heel, 
angrily,  and  betook  himself  off  to  Rector's,  to 
see  if  any  one  he  knew  were  lingering  over  a  late 

365 


Felicity 


lunch  there.  As  he  had  reason  to  expect,  several 
cronies  of  his  were  there,  and  he  spent  the  after- 
noon with  them,  there,  until  half-past  three  or  so, 
then  playing  billiards,  having  "  a  look  in  "  on  a 
poolroom  where  special  wire  returns  were  coming 
in  from  the  New  Orleans  and  Memphis  races,  and 
drifting  around  in  idle,  actor  fashion  until  it  was 
time  to  think  of  early  dinner. 

Vincent  never  felt  constrained  to  dine  with 
Felicity.  He  was  seldom  with  her  in  the  before- 
dinner  hours,  except  on  matinee  days,  and  it  was 
usually  pleasanter  for  him  to  dine  with  the  people 
he  happened  to  be  with.  Whoever  they  were,  they 
were  sure  to  make  a  pleasure  of  the  meal  and  to 
make  something  of  an  ado  over  him  as  a  jovial  din- 
ner-mate. And  with  Felicity,  dinner  was  scant  and 
simple  for  herself  and  a  time  of  much  preoccupa- 
tion; she  was  "  all  theatre,"  and  had  no  mind  for 
anything  but  the  business  of  the  evening.  She 
liked  to  talk,  at  dinner,  if  she  talked  at  all,  about 
her  character  for  the  night's  performance — to  talk 
herself  into  it,  as  it  were — and  this  bored  Vin- 
cent, who  was  very  tired  of  the  whole  repertoire 
and  liked  to  forget  "the  shop"  when  he  could; 
though  he  always  drew  a  line  sharply  between  the 
shop  as  a  forum  of  art  and  that  gossip  about  shop 
folks  which  was  one  of  his  favorite  pastimes. 

Felicity  never  expected  him  to  dinner,  never 
waited  for  him — that  he  was  aware  of — so  he 

366 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

felt  no  compunction  about  staying  away.  He  had 
not  relegated  this  omission  to  the  category  of 
things  "  not  the  decent  thing  to  do,"  like  omit- 
ting to  rise  when  she  entered  the  room,  or  to  hold 
the  door  for  her  when  she  passed  out. 

So  he  dined  with  friends,  to-night,  and  promised, 
when  he  hurried  away  from  them  at  seven  o'clock, 
to  join  them  and  their  party  at  supper  after  the 
play. 

As  he  left  the  restaurant,  a  man  more  than  half- 
intoxicated  lurched  toward  him,  making  a  futile 
effort  to  clutch  him.  But  some  one  pulled  the  man 
back  into  his  seat,  with  a  sharp  admonition  to  sit 
still  and  keep  out  of  trouble,  and  Vincent  passed 
out,  unnoticing. 

"  I  won't  be  still,"  cried  Ashley,  with  drunken 
shrillness;  "  he's  got  to  'pologize  to  me  for  that 

wife  of  his!  Look  a'  that!"  he 

ordered  the  casual  acquaintance,  who,  seeing  him 
"  in  trouble,"  was  trying  to  quiet  him,  "  look  a' 
the  letter  I  got  f'm  a  friend  o'  mine,  'fusin'  t'  eat 
dinner  with  me — a  gen'leman  she  owes  ever'thing 
to! — because  that  Fergus  woman  poisoned  her 
agains'  me.  Says  she  mus'  '  break  wi'  me  for- 
ever ' — look  a'  that !  " 

He  thrust  the  letter  forward  for  the  inspection 
his  acquaintance  was  scrupulously  trying  to  refrain 
from  giving  it — the  frightened,  tearful  letter  poor 
Arline  had  written  him  after  her  interview  with 

367 


Felicity 

Felicity,  and  sent  by  messenger  to  him  instead  of 
keeping  her  appointment  for  an  early  dinner. 

After  some  advice  to  "  forget  it  "  and  keep 
the  peace,  the  acquaintance,  an  actor,  hurried  away 
to  his  work,  leaving  Ashley,  who  was  just  now,  as 
usually,  out  of  a  job,  sitting  in  the  restaurant,  mut- 
tering. He  was  drunk,  but  not  drunk  enough  to 
have  forgotten  himself  and  told  the  acquaintance 
how  peculiarly  distressing  was  this  "  break  "  with 
the  foolish  girl  who  had  been  supplying  him  with 
money  out  of  her  meagre  earnings — "  sharing  with 
a  comrade,"  she  called  it,  and  tried  to  believe  it 
was  the  bonhomie  of  "  the  road."  But  Ashley, 
who  cared  no  more  for  the  girl  than  men  ever  care 
for  women  who  support  them,  was  desperate  about 
the  withdrawal  of  her  money. 

"  Coin'  see  tha'  woman  'n'  make  her  undo  wha' 
she's  done,  'r  else  make  'er  good  'n'  blame  sorry 
f'r  it,"  he  told  himself,  as  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether with  a  mighty  effort,  and  lurched  out. 

Felicity  was  in  her  dressing-room  when  Vincent 
reached  the  theatre,  and  he  lounged  in  on  his  way 
to  his  own  room.  There  was  a  deal  of  bustle 
behind  the  scenes,  this  opening  night  of  the  engage- 
ment, and  stage-manager,  property-man,  stage-car- 
penter, electrician,  wardrobe  mistress  and  head 
scene-shifter  were  all  busy  making  finally  sure  that 
their  several  responsibilities  would  be  well  dis- 

368 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

charged.  The  manager  of  the  theatre  was  in  evi- 
dence, too,  and  the  director  of  the  orchestra  was 
getting  some  final  instructions  about  the  inci- 
dental music. 

There  was  a  litter  of  florists'  boxes  and  tissue 
paper  outside  Felicity's  door,  waiting  to  be  carried 
away,  and  he  encountered  Celeste  coming  out  as 
he  went  in;  she  was  carrying  an  armful  of  flowers 
for  which  there  was  no  space  in  the  small,  cluttered 
dressing-room,  nor,  apparently,  anywhere  else  in 
the  maze  of  canvas  and  ropes  and  switchboards 
and  a  hundred  other  contrivances  that  filled  every 
available  inch  of  the  stage. 

Eventfulness  was  in  the  air,  and  even  Vincent 
felt  it.  Chicago  was  keenly  anxious  to  see  the 
great  comedienne  for  the  first  time  in  three  years; 
the  house  had  been  sold  out  for  a  week,  almost, 
the  newspapers  had  column  interviews,  and  in 
every  quarter  there  was  an  undeniable  flutter  of 
expectation.  The  woman  in  whom  it  all  centred 
sat  in  her  shabby  dressing-room,  unmindful  of  the 
intricate  machinery  that  was  preparing  for  her  ex- 
ploitation— mindful  only  of  the  favorite  part  she 
was  going  to  play. 

The  play,  'Toinette  La  Fontaine,  had  been 
written  for  her,  and  suited  her  wonderfully  in  many 
ways.  She  herself  had  directed  every  line  of  it, 
and  insisted  on  many  dramatic  heresies  to  empha- 
size her  peculiar  charm.  For  one  thing,  she 

369 


Felicity 


entered  with  no  blare  of  trumpets,  no  awkward 
salvos  of  applause,  "no  hitting  people  in  the  eye 
with  the  announcement  that  I  am  there  and  about 
to  charm  them,"  as  she  expressed  it,  quoting  an 
oft-repeated  remark  of  The  Old  Man's.  When 
the  curtain  went  up,  there  were  several  persons  on 
the  stage,  she  among  them.  None  of  the  early 
dialogue  included  her  or  took  any  note  of  her;  she 
might  have  been  a  "  walking  lady,"  flitting  about 
in  the  background,  in  her  simple  white  dress  and 
hat  with  the  flopping  brim — until  she  faced  sud- 
denly around,  arrested  by  something  in  the  conver- 
sation going  on,  and  smiled.  There  were  always 
in  the  audience  enough  people  to  whom  the  play 
was  new,  to  furnish  the  little  gasp  of  surprise 
which  accompanied  her  recognition;  and  then — 
oh !  it  were  churlish  to  complain  that  so  terrific  a 
burst  of  applause  obliged  one  to  "  step  out  of  char- 
acter "  in  acknowledging  it.  The  heart  that  would 
not  respond  to  such  greeting  is  inconceivable. 

Felicity  already  "  looked  the  part "  when  Vin- 
cent came  in;  her  shining,  pale-brown  hair  was 
braided  and  bound  coronet-wise  about  her  lovely 
head.  Her  eyes  were  dancing  with  girlish  fun. 
Her  mouth,  even  as  she  directed  her  maids,  had 
"  the  corners  tucked  in,"  as  if  so  to  contain  an  over- 
flowing mirthfulness.  Vincent  could  by  no  means 
be  sure  as  he  looked  at  her,  whether  her  mood  was 
personal  or  artistic.  Felicity  herself  was  like  this, 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

sometimes — when  she  was  not  tired,  nor  fretted  by 
uncongenial  company  nor  any  one  of  a  good  many 
other  things.  She  had  times,  off  the  stage  when, 
as  well  as  she  always  did  on  the  stage,  she  could 
entrance  one  with  her  dancing  comedy  sense  of  her 
own  delicious  absurdity — make  one  laugh  to  tears 
with  her  realization  of  her  own  charming  incon- 
sistency. She  was  irresistible  at  such  times,  and  she 
knew  it — knew  that  she  had  only  to  have  recourse 
to  this  manner  to  make  a  worshipper  of  any  one 
who  came  in  contact  with  her  and  to  send  him  away 
committed  forevermore  to  the  belief  that  she  was 
the  most  fascinating  creature  alive.  But  alas !  in 
private  life,  in  social  intercourse,  she  could  not 
always,  or  often,  don  her  fascination  at  will,  as 
she  did  when  she  went  upon  the  boards — which 
was  one  of  the  many  mysteries  about  her  to  Vin- 
cent, who  could  always  do  as  he  wanted  to  do,  and 
nearly  always  did  it. 

"Well,  Ladyship?"  he  remarked  from  the 
doorway,  his  voice  having  an  interrogative  tone 
quite  expressive  of  his  feelings. 

She  turned  to  him  teasingly.  "  You  bore  me  to 
death,  Vincent — you  do,  really — hanging  on  my 
apron  strings  the  whole  day.  Can't  you  find  any- 
thing to  amuse  yourself  with?  " 

There  seemed  nothing  but  the  highest  good 
nature  in  her  banter,  so  he  went  in  and  kissed  her. 
"  Some  awfully  jolly  people  asked  me  to  dine," 


Felicity 

he  explained,  "  and  I  knew  you  wouldn't  know 
whether  I  was  with  you  or  not " 

She  sniffed.  "  Your  insignificance  or  my  inap- 
preciation?  "  she  quizzed. 

"  Yours,  of  course,"  he  answered,  gayly. 

She  put  her  hands  together  as  if  praying  and 
rolled  her  eyes  in  her  favorite  mockery  of  him  as 
a  matinee  idol.  He  seized  the  hands  and  crushed 
them  till  she  cried  out. 

"  Jealous  wretch !  "  he  hissed,  in  fine  pretence, 
"  you  spoiled  all  that  for  me  when  you  '  up  an' 
married  me.'  I  knew  how  'twould  be,  but  you 
would  do  it !  " 

And  before  she  could  visit  vengeance  upon  him, 
he  fled,  laughing,  to  his  own  quarters. 

The  play  went  with  a  swing  that  night;  Felicity 
had  never  been  in  more  exquisite  humor,  and  no 
one  escaped  the  contagion  of  it. 

Morton,  sitting  alone  in  an  orchestra  chair,  mar- 
velled at  the  lightness  and  exquisite  sureness  of  her 
touch,  and  scowled,  unseen,  at  the  ignorance  of 
the  people  behind  him  who  gushed  about  her 
"  perfect  naturalness — you'd  hardly  know  she  was 
acting." 

"  If  they  could  only  know,"  he  thought,  "  how 
poor  a  substitute  Nature  would  be  for  Art — what 
perfection  of  Art  it  is  that  hides  its  elaborate 
method  under  this  apparent  artlessness.  But  they 

372 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square'* 

haven't  an  idea  what  this  costs  her — probably 
think  she  could  do  it  in  her  sleep !  " 

And  the  more  his  indignation  burned,  the  more 
he  wondered  that  she  could  play,  knowing,  as  she 
must  know,  how  little,  even  with  all  their  applause, 
the  majority  of  those  who  watched  her  could  ap- 
preciate what  she  did.  Sometimes  a  giggle  was 
raised,  hysterically,  where  it  had  least  right  to  be; 
sometimes  a  point  of  exceeding  fineness  made  no 
mark  whatever,  and  Morton  writhed  in  chagrin 
on  her  behalf.  He  thought  how  a  single  uncon- 
genial personality  i-n  a  little  group,  off  the  stage, 
would  freeze  this  wonderful  Felicity  into  stiff 
silence,  and  could  not  comprehend  how  the  artist 
passion  that  was  in  her  could  overleap  all  bounds 
when  she  trod  the  boards;  how  the  woman  who 
quailed  before  a  parlorful,  who  shrank  from  a 
misunderstanding  dinner-partner,  could  forget 
everything,  when  she  was  acting,  but  the  part  she 
played. 

When  the  final  curtain  fell,  he  hesitated  a 
moment,  pondering  whether  he  should  go  back 
and  speak  to  her,  try  to  tell  her  how  he  had 
thrilled  with  the  wonder  of  her  work,  or  go  home, 
and  leave  the  telling  for  to-morrow  when  he  might 
lunch  with  her,  perhaps.  There  was  never  any 
chance  of  seeing  her  alone,  after  the  play. 
Always,  some  one  was  with  her — Vincent  or 
Celeste  or  Mr.  Leffler,  or  some  one  else — and  con- 

373 


Felicity 

versation  with  her  was  general,  never  intimate. 
That  she  was  lonely,  he  knew,  but  there  was  no 
getting  at  her  in  her  loneliness;  she  could  have  no 
recourse  from  it  without  inviting  calumny.  If  she 
could  have  cared  for  the  noisy  pleasures  of  her 
garish  world,  she  might  have  gone  far  without 
causing  censure.  But  the  things  she  liked  to  do 
were  all  impossible  to  her  because  they  were,  for 
a  great  actress,  unconventional. 

She  would  have  liked  to  go  to  the  woods  with 
him,  one  of  these  warm,  Spring  days,  and  hunt  for 
hepaticas,  and  talk,  and  eat  sandwiches  out  of  a 
paper  box.  Yes,  she  would  have  liked  to  stop  in 
some  small,  quiet  German  garden,  as  they  came 
in  from  the  suburbs,  and  sit  out  at  a  white-painted 
table  under  a  tree  and  drink  a  glass  of  beer  and 
watch  the  people  who  came  and  went,  and  specu- 
late about  them — as  Balzac  had  speculated  about 
"  the  little  men  "  of  the  rue  Lesdigueres,  the  great 
army  of  the  unknown,  each  of  whom  was  a  maker 
of  history. 

She  would  have  liked — ah !  Morton  knew  many 
things  she  would  have  liked;  the  blood  of  The  Old 
Man  was  in  his  veins,  and  he  understood;  but 
they  were  all  taboo  to  her. 

He  could  go  back  and  see  her  now.  He  could 
wait  a  minute  at  the  stage  entrance,  while  the 
door-keeper  took  back  his  name  and  returned  with 
word  bidding  him  come  in.  He  could  thread  his 

374 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

way  across  the  stage  with  its  seeming  confusion 
which  was  not  confusion  but  the  perfection  of 
order.  He  could  stand  outside  her  dressing-room 
door  while  marble  palaces  and  forest  green-woods 
vanished  into  the  flies  above  his  head,  and  watch 
actors  and  actresses,  "  supers  "  and  scene-shifters, 
skurrying  away  from  work  as  fast  as  they  could, 
away  from  the  world  of  glamour  which  was  work 
to  them,  to  the  world  of  actuality  and  pleasure. 
And  by  and  by  he  could  step  into  Felicity's  clut- 
tered room  and  hold  her  hand  for  a  fraction  of  a 
second,  and  Celeste  would  remove  a  big  make-up 
box  from  a  wooden  chair  so  he  could  sit  down. 
And  there,  while  two  maids  folded  and  put  away 
the  panoply  of  the  stage,  and  the  manager  of  the 
theatre  interrupted  every  minute  with  a  request  to 
present  somebody,  and  Mr.  Leffler  came  in  and 
out  with  business  messages,  and  Vincent  stood  by, 
chatting  with  everybody,  he  could  see  Felicity, 
and  tell  her  he  liked  her  play.  No !  he  would  not 
go;  it  was  only  an  aggravation  to  him  and  could 
not,  presumably,  be  any  pleasure  to  her. 

Meanwhile,  back  of  the  drop  curtain,  precisely 
those  things  were  happening  which  Morton  knew 
so  well.  Finally,  nearly  every  one  was  gone,  and 
Felicity  was  free  to  go  too.  Vincent  had  long 
been  waiting  impatiently  to  keep  his  supper  en- 
gagement, but  would  not  go  and  leave  Felicity  in 
the  theatre.  She  walked  to  the  hotel  when  possi- 

375 


Felicity 


ble,  by  preference,  and  he  usually  walked  with  her 
as  far  as  the  hotel  door.  To-night,  however,  she 
was  very  tired,  and  said  she  would  ride;  so  a  cab 
was  waiting  for  her  and  Vincent  lingered  to  put 
her  into  it.  There  were  half  a  dozen  men  still 
present  who  could  have  done  it  just  as  well,  and 
would  have  done  it  gladly,  but  this  was  one  of 
Vincent's  little  niceties — quite  an  article  in  his 
strictly-observed  code  of  "  the  decent  thing  to  do." 
It  was  not  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  code, 
though,  to  be  rather  fretfully  in  haste  about 
doing  it. 

Still,  gayety  was  in  the  air  to-night,  and  Vin- 
cent, with  all  his  impatience,  was  in  overflowing 
good  spirits  as  he  came  down  the  short  flight  of 
steps  inside  the  stage  entrance  and  stepped  into 
the  dim  alley,  with  its  solitary  light  above  the 
theatre  door.  Felicity  was  immediately  behind 
him,  and  the  cab  was  standing  close  to  the  curb. 
As  Vincent  reached  forward  to  open  the  carriage 
door,  he  turned  sharply  to  his  right,  instinctively, 
as  one  scents  danger,  and  caught  the  flash  of  steel 
in  the  semi-darkness.  With  lightning  quickness  he 
threw  himself  back  a  step,  between  Felicity  and  the 
sinister  thing,  and  in  that  same  fraction  of  a  second 
there  was  a  report,  a  puff  of  smoke  that  quickly 
lost  itself  in  the  current  of  air  blowing  through  the 
alley,  and  Vincent  sank  heavily  to  the  pavement. 

In  a  twinkling,  the  driver  was  off  his  box  and 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

grappling  with  Jack  Ashley,  and  a  dozen  theatre 
employes  were  on  the  scene.  For  a  moment  or 
two,  which  seemed  an  eternity,  the  one  idea  was 
directed  toward  the  drunken  assailant,  to  prevent 
his  escape.  Then  everybody  seemed  at  once  to 
remember  Vincent  and  his  need,  and  turned  to  him. 
Felicity,  without  uttering  a  sound  but  one  low  moan 
of  horror,  had  dropped  on  her  knees  and  almost 
caught  him  as  he  fell.  There  she  knelt,  when  they 
turned  to  him,  holding  his  head  on  her  knee,  ap- 
parently insensible  of  what  had  happened,  or  at 
least  of  the  full  horror  of  it,  and  acting  in  pure 
instinct  in  gathering  him  to  her. 

When  they  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  back 
into  the  theatre,  she  followed  mechanically,  in  a 
daze.  Celeste,  meeting  her,  screamed  that  her 
dress  was  soaked  with  blood,  and  Felicity,  who 
always  had  a  sick  terror  at  the  sight  of  blood, 
looked  down  at  it  unflinchingly.  Celeste  fainted, 
and  Felicity  walked  past  her  indifferently,  leaving 
who  would  to  care  for  her,  and  followed  the 
bearers  into  Vincent's  dressing-room,  where  they 
laid  him  on  the  floor  until  one  or  two  stage-hands, 
hunting  frantically  for  a  couch  in  the  property 
room,  should  find  him  better  comfort. 

Police  headquarters  was  not  a  stone's  throw  dis- 
tant and  guardians  of  the  law  swarmed  over  to 
make  sure  of  vengeance  for  the  law's  breaking. 
When  they  arrived,  Felicity  was  kneeling  on  the 

377 


Felicity 

floor  beside  her  husband,  trying  to  stanch  the  flow 
of  blood  with  towels.  "  If  you  were  any  good," 
she  flamed  out  at  them,  fiercely,  unreasonably — 
her  grief  finding,  as  with  so  many  gentle  souls,  its 
only  expression  in  rage — "  you  wouldn't  leave  a 
beast  like  that  at  large,  to  do  a  deed  like  this !  " 

Within  ten  minutes  there  appeared  the  house 
physician  from  a  hotel  near  by.  He  said  there  was 
no  use  in  moving  Vincent  to  a  hospital;  it  would 
only  cause  him  great  agony — as  he  appeared  to  be 
semi-conscious — and  could  not  do  the  least  good. 
"  He  can't  live  an  hour,"  the  doctor  whispered  to 
the  police  sergeant.  Felicity's  keen  ears  caught  the 
whisper. 

"  Can't  you  do  a  thing?  "  she  asked,  quietly, 
"  not  a  thing?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  sorry,"  he 
said,  lamely. 

"  Then  please,"  she  ordered  rather  than  re- 
quested, "  clear  all  these  people  out  of  here — all 
of  them.  I  want  to  be  alone  with  him." 

The  doctor  looked  inquiringly  at  the  officer, 
who  nodded  acquiescence,  and  in  silence  they 
withdrew,  driving  the  little  rabble  that  filled  the 
doorway  before  them,  and  closing  the  door  of  the 
tiny  room  on  the  woman  of  the  wondrous  smile 
and  that  debonair  gentleman,  her  husband. 

In  a  minute,  the  doctor  knocked.  "  A  couch  has 
been  found,"  he  said;  "  it  may  make  him  a  little 

378 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

more  comfortable — in  any  case,  it  is  more 
fitting " 

"  Certainly." 

And  when  they  had  lifted  him  upon  it,  she 
busied  herself  for  a  moment  with  adjusting  the 
cushions  beneath  his  head.  Then,  when  the  door 
was  closed  again,  she  slipped  to  the  floor  and, 
crouching  there,  laid  her  head  close  to  him,  her 
warm  cheek  touching  his  inert  hand,  and  there 
sat,  marvelling  at  the  strange  matter-of-factness 
of  it  all,  the  absence  of  hysteria,  of  all  those  feel- 
ings and  actions  ordinarily  described  as  dramatic. 
This  was  her  clearest  consciousness — the  undra- 
matic  quality  of  the  scene  she  was  living  through; 
and  beneath  that,  a  wonder  that  she  should  think 
of  such  a  thing  at  such  a  time !  Did  people  never 
really  suffer  in  tremendous  crises?  Or  did  a  mer- 
ciful Providence  dull  them  into  insensibility  like 
this?  Was  it  all  a  mistake,  attributing  poignant 
feeling  and  expressive  action  to  persons  undergo- 
ing great  experiences? 

Afterwards  —  always  afterwards  —  Felicity 
found  herself  unable  to  forget  the  curious  insist- 
ence of  that  strange  questioning  which  seemed  to 
occupy  her  numbed  brain  while  she  sat  there  on  the 
floor  of  Vincent's  dressing-room,  with  the  motley 
little  throng  just  outside  the  door,  and  waited  for 
him  to  die. 

Presently,  she  felt  his  hand  flutter  beneath  her 

379 


Felicity 

cheek,  and  she  looked  up  quickly,  to  find  him  look- 
ing at  her.  He  tried  to  smile,  when  he  caught  her 
eager  look,  but  it  was  a  pitiful  ghost  of  Vincent's 
gay  smile.  Then  her  tears  came  in  a  flood. 

"  Oh,  Vincent,"  she  sobbed,  burying  her  head 
beside  him,  "why  did  you  do  it?  how  can  you 
forgive  me?  " 

"  It  wasn't — anything,"  he  whispered,  faintly. 
"  I'm  glad — I  could  do  it — for  you.  It  wasn't 
much — don't  cry — it  was  only — the  decent — thing 
to — do.  It  seems  as  if — we  fellows — who  are  not 
very — steady  or — or  good,  I  guess,  get — a  chance 
— sometimes — at  the  end.  Maybe  it — counts — 
to  us — maybe  it — makes  us — square " 

His  eyes  closed  with  the  exhaustion  of  his  effort, 
and  she  thought  he  was  gone.  Rising  hastily  to  her 
feet,  she  bent  over  him  in  a  passion  of  tenderness, 
calling  him  back. 

"Vincent!"  she  entreated,  fondling  his  face, 
raining  kisses  on  his  closed  eyes,  on  his  lips,  on 
his  forehead,  "  Vincent!  don't  go!  Stay  with  me 
— I  need  you  so !  Oh,  God !  let  him  stay  with 
me — I  need  him  so — he's  all  I  have — I'm  all 
alone!" 

The  doctor  tapped  gently  at  the  door.  She  was 
so  quiet  he  feared  she  might  have  succumbed  to 
the  shock  and  fainted. 

"Come!"  she  said,  and  he  opened  the  door 
softly.  She  was  standing  by  the  couch,  looking 

380 


"Vincent!"   she  entreated.      "Vincent!   don't  go!" 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

down  at  Vincent;  her  face  was  tear-stained,  but 
she  was  very  quiet.  "  I  think  he's  gone,"  she  said. 

He  lifted  the  hand  her  cheek  had  lain  against 
and  felt  for  a  pulsebeat;  there  was  sufficient  an- 
swer to  her  fears  in  the  reverence  with  which  he 
laid  it  down  again.  "  Shall  I  send  your  maid, 
Mrs.  Delano?"  he  asked,  with  respectful  solici- 
tude. 

That  hurt.  The  suggestion  that  she  could  only 
wish  to  leave  him  now,  seemed  cruel. 

"  I  want  to  stay  with  him,  please,"  she  peti- 
tioned, her  mouth  so  tremulous  she  could  scarcely 
articulate. 

"  After  a  while,"  he  replied,  gently. 

She  understood,  and  yielded.  Across  the  stage, 
in  her  own  dressing-room,  she  sat  before  the  glass 
and  stared  dully  at  her  own  reflection.  Celeste  was 
snuffling  miserably,  and  in  tones  of  sharp  irrita- 
tion, Felicity  ordered  her  to  be  quiet. 

There  was  a  magazine  lying  on  her  dressing 
table,  a  dog-eared  popular  magazine  the  maids 
had  been  reading,  with  pictures  of  actresses  for  its 
chief  illustrative  feature;  there  was  a  picture  of 
herself  among  the  lot,  and  Felicity  looked  at  it 
with  an  apparent  interest  deeper  than  she  had  ever 
shown  for  anything  of  thp  kind  before.  Then  she 
turned  to  a  story  and  began  to  read,  reading  faith- 
fully, every  word,  and  clearly  "  sensing  it  "  all, 
after  a  fashion — yet  every  moment  acutely  con- 


Felicity 

scious  of  the  ghostly  stage  just  beyond,  and  the 
stark  figure  across  those  silent  reaches. 

It  was  nearly  two  hours  later  when  the  doctor 
came  to  her.  Everything  that  could  be  done  was 
done,  now.  Peacefully,  in  his  last  sleep,  lay  the 
blithe  gentleman  who  had  stood  laughing  in  this 
doorway  of  hers  an  incredibly  short  while — or 
was  it  an  eternity? — ago;  across  the  street  in  a 
cell  at  the  Central  Police  Headquarters,  Jack  Ash- 
ley sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  staring  into  the 
darkness  and  muttering  regret  that  he  hadn't  u  got 
her." 

Now  the  question  was,  what  to  do  with  Vincent's 
body.  Hotels  are  not  kindly  disposed  toward  the 
dead,  and  the  doctor  suggested  that  the  body  be 
taken  to  the  chapel  of  the  undertaker.  But  from 
this  Felicity  shrank  in  tremendous  protest. 

"  I  want  him  where  I  can  be  with  him  all  the 
time — all  the  time  that's  left,"  she  said. 

The  doctor  pondered.  "  Have  you  any  friends 
who  might  be  willing  to  have  him  taken  to  their 
house?  "  he  asked. 

Felicity  thought,  to  no  purpose  for  a  few  mo- 
ments; she  could  hardly  be  sure,  just  at  first,  where 
she  was.  Then,  "  There's  Morton  Allston,"  she 
said,  "  he  lives  here  and  would — yes,  I'm  sure 
he  would  be  willing." 

Morton  had  no  telephone,  and  there  must  needs 
be  a  messenger  sent  to  him.  It  was  over  an  hour 

382 


Vincent  is  "Made  Square" 

before  the  messenger  returned,  bringing  Morton 
with  him.  But  Felicity,  sitting  by  Vincent,  was 
unconscious  of  the  passing  of  time. 

The  chill  dawn  was  breaking  when  Morton  led 
her  from  the  theatre  and  put  her  into  a  carriage 
with  Celeste  to  be  driven  to  his  home.  Behind 
them,  travelling  at  a  respectful  pace,  came  the 
undertaker's  wagon  with  Vincent's  body. 

Upstairs  in  the  quiet  room  where  Sadie's  spirit 
had  gone  fluttering  out  and  where  her  body  had 
lain  at  rest  in  the  first  hours  of  the  separation,  they 
laid  poor  Vincent,  sheeted  and  still. 

When  he  was  left  alone,  when  the  last  alien 
touch  was  withdrawn  from  him  for  a  while, 
Morton  led  Felicity  to  the  door  and,  opening  it 
for  her,  closed  it  softly  between  him  and  her  and 
left  her  alone  with  her  dead. 

Downstairs,  he  talked  with  Celeste — said  the 
house  was  at  Mrs.  Delano's  disposal  and  that  he 
would  be  at  her  call,  in  his  office  or  at  his  club.  He 
suggested  that  Felicity  be  persuaded,  if  possible, 
to  rest,  and  showed  Celeste  where  to  find  wine  and 
brandy  in  case  her  mistress  would  take  either.  He 
gave  some  last  directions  to  his  sleepy  servants, 
and  was  gone — with  the  heaviest  heart  he  had 
ever  known,  because  he  could  not  comfort  that 
stricken  woman  upstairs  in  the  shadow,  the 
Great  Shadow. 


383 


PART  III 

OPENING    AT    BRIARWOOD,    MISSISSIPPI,    IN 
MARCH,    I 


CHAPTER   XXII 

SOMETHING  SET  APART 

BRIARWOOD  PLANTATION  was  looking 
its  loveliest  for  the  mistress  who  so  seldom 
saw  it.  Three  years  ago  she  had  come  here  and 
brought  her  husband's  body  to  lie  beside  her  par- 
ents in  the  tiny  plantation  burial  plot;  and  here 
she  had  rested  and  tried  to  recover  from  the  shock 
of  his  death.  But  her  broken  engagements,  her 
idle  company,  haunted  her,  and  she  dreamed, 
nights,  of  the  horrors  to  come — of  a  murder  trial 
in  which  she  must  testify,  of  the  visiting  of  justice 
in  a  hideous  form  on  the  murderer,  of  the  acute 
pain  of  facing  audiences  again,  of  encountering 
people  with  sad  or  merely  curious  knowledge  in 
their  eyes.  It  was  a  nightmare,  that  visit,  saved 
from  utter  dreadfulness  only  by  the  hours  she  spent 
at  Vincent's  grave,  hours  when  he  seemed  far, 
far  nearer  to  her  than  ever  he  had  seemed  in  the 
laughing,  care- free  reality  of  life. 

Since  then,  she  had  gone  on,  somehow,  stag- 
gering at  first,  groping,  stumbling,  but  persistent, 
incredibly  persistent.  There  was  nothing  for  her 
in  rest,  in  surcease  of  labors.  "  If  I  were  happy  I 

387 


Felicity 

might  rest,"  was  her  reply  to  all  entreaties,  "  but 
I  dare  not  stop.  Work  is  all  that's  left  to  me." 

So  she  had  kept  going,  God  only  knew  how; 
had  kept  going  until  she  found  peace.  Then,  when 
that  tragic  restlessness  gave  way  to  something 
gentler,  the  power  that  had  kept  her  active  seemed 
to  be  gone,  and  she  collapsed.  People  only  mar- 
velled that  she  had  kept  the  fateful  hour  at  bay 
so  long. 

First  there  was  the  hospital — wonderful !  with 
the  insight  it  gave  her  into  a  great  new  world,  the 
World  of  Pain.  And  then  there  was  the  sani- 
tarium— wonderful,  too,  with  its  world  of  people 
who  suffered  in  body  because  they  suffered  in  mind; 
whose  hearts,  all;  were  ill  at  ease,  and  so  the  doc- 
tors said  they  had  "  nerves."  Felicity  was  keenly 
interested  in  both  places,  so  keenly  that  the  doc- 
tors were  unanimous  in  declaring  neither  was  the 
place  for  her.  She  must  get  beyond  the  range  of 
these  ardent  human  interests,  if  possible;  she  must 
have  rest. 

This  she  sought  at  Briarwood,  taking  with  her 
Frances  Allston  and  her  charge,  the  little  Sarah 
Frances,  now  nearly  nine  years  old.  They  went 
down  the  river  from  Memphis  by  packet,  debark- 
ing at  Briarwood  landing  just  as  Robert  Fergus 
had  done  when  he  went  for  his  bride,  nearly  forty 
years  before.  It  was  January,  and  such  winter  as 
Mississippi  knows,  not  more  severe  than  North- 

388 


Something  Set  Apart 

ern  springs,  but  chill  enough,  most  days,  for  big 
open  fires  on  the  hearths  of  Briarwood  House, 
though  there  was  never  a  day  when  there  were  not 
some  flowers  blooming  in  the  sunny  corners  of  the 
old-fashioned  gardens. 

Felicity  throve  splendidly,  with  a  grand- 
daughter of  Zilianne's  to  cook  for  her,  and  in 
February,  when  Mardi  Gras  was  over  and  New 
Orleans  had  put  on  her  Lenten  ashes,  they  went 
down  to  the  charming  old  city  and  "  lazed  "  hap- 
pily up  and  down  its  quaint,  historic  streets,  buying 
curios  with  marvellous  "  hand-made  histories,"  as 
The  Old  Man  used  to  say,  acquiring  white  rabbits 
and  small  green  paroquets  and  fluffy  sable  and 
white  collie  pups  for  which  they  had  no  immediate 
housing,  in  the  story-book-like  animal  shops  on 
Royal  Street.  They  hunted  for  and,  to  their  infi- 
nite delight,  found  the  macaroni  factory  over  which 
had  lived  that  mysterious  teacher  of  fencing;  and 
Felicity  declared  it  was  the  same  blind  white  horse 
that  turned  the  rude  machinery;  nor  would  hear 
to  the  contrary.  She  was  surprised,  she  said,  not 
to  find  her  old  master  of  the  foils ;  twenty-five  years 
could  not  have  added  appreciably  to  his  age  or  his 
"  withered-upness,"  she  maintained. 

Once,  in  the  golden,  olden  days  she  was  re-liv- 
ing, they  had  gone  to  Bay  St.  Louis,  she  and 
Aunt  Elie  and  "  the  Witch  of  Endor,"  and  it  had 
been  the  sleepiest,  restfullest  time  she  had  ever 

389 


Felicity 

known.  There  was  a  yellow  dog,  she  said,  who 
was  sleeping  in  the  middle  of  the  shell  road  along 
which  they  were  driving,  close  by  the  azure  Gulf, 
and  they  had  to  drive  'round  him,  at  some  incon- 
venience, for  he  would  not  move.  Felicity  insisted 
that  she  wanted  to  see  that  dog  again.  "  Oh,  I 
know  he's  there!  "  she  said;  "  still  sleeping  in  that 
warm  sunshine!  I've  thought  of  him  a  thousand 
times,  I  guess — and  envied  him."  So  they  went  to 
the  Bay,  and  there  was,  if  not  the  identical  dog,  at 
least  his  great-great-great-great-grandson,  Felicity 
computed. 

Early  in  March  they  returned  to  Briarwood  and 
found  it  looking  its  spring  loveliest  for  their  wel- 
come. Narcissus,  blooming  in  magnificent  profu- 
sion, bordered  the  uneven  brick  walks  around  the 
house  and  glorified  the  jagged  terraces  of  the  old, 
unkempt  sunken  garden  whose  heydey  was  half  a 
century  in  the  past.  Violets  grew  thick  along  the 
trellises  under  the  broad  galleries,  and  already,  in 
the  sunniest  places,  the  peach  trees  were  in  bloom. 
Coming  up  from  the  moss-hung  live-oaks,  the  mam- 
moth palms,  the  abysmal  cypress  swamps  of  the 
far  south,  one  felt  a  delicate  loveliness  about  the 
bloom  at  Briarwood  that  gave  an  exquisite  delight. 

They  had  been  back  but  a  few  days  when  word 
came  from  Morton  that  he  was  coming  south  on  a 
business  trip,  to  Memphis  and  New  Orleans,  and 
"  if  urged  "  would  stop  at  Briarwood  over  Sunday. 

390 


Something  Set  Apart 

The  urging  must  have  been  sufficient,  for  he 
came  Saturday  morning,  by  the  Valley  train,  and 
they  all  met  him  and  escorted  him  in  state  to  the 
house.  It  was  his  first  visit  to  a  plantation,  and 
Briarwood,  managed  by  a  capable,  profit-sharing 
planter  and  financed  with  Felicity's  ample  means, 
was  now  one  of  the  model  plantations  of  the  State. 
The  "  quarters  "  were  limited,  in  this  latter-day 
regime,  to  the  cabins  of  the  house  servants  and  a 
few  others;  the  rest  of  the  eight  hundred  blacks 
who  lived  in  feudal  fief  of  the  broad  acres  were 
scattered  broadcast  over  them,  each  on  his  own 
holding.  But  the  plantation  store  provided  a 
meeting  place  that  left  little  to  be  desired  on  the 
part  of  the  stranger  seeking  sights  of  plantation 
life;  and  altogether  there  was  a  good  deal  of  the 
old  South  to  be  experienced,  for  the  blacks  were 
free  in  name  more  than  in  capacity  for  freedom, 
and  practically  were  the  same  care  as  if  they  had 
been  chattels. 

All  day  Morton  spent  most  interestedly  going 
over  the  place,  now  with  the  planter,  now  with 
Felicity,  always  with  Sarah  Frances.  In  the  even- 
ing, after  supper,  while  Mrs.  Allston  was  giving 
Sarah  Frances  her  bath  and  putting  her  to  bed, 
Felicity  took  Morton  to  the  store  to  see  the  sights 
of  that  great  trading  time.  Afterwards,  they 
strolled  through  the  quarters  and  listened  to  the 
plaintive  twanging  of  a  love-sick  swain's  guitar  and 

391 


Felicity 


to  the  livelier  whanging  of  negro  dance  music  and 
the  rhythm  of  shuffling  feet.  Soft  voices  were 
raised  everywhere,  in  laughter  and  in  conversation, 
and  in  song;  even  the  squealing  pickaninnies  had  a 
cry  that  was  not  harsh. 

As  they  climbed  the  hill  on  which  the  stately 
pillared  old  white  house  stood,  they  halted,  near 
the  top,  to  gaze  in  ecstasy  at  the  mighty  Missis- 
sippi, a  glittering  silver  flood  under  the  nearly  full 
moon. 

Felicity  caught  at  her  breast  with  her  clenched 
hand  in  a  little,  peculiar  gesture  she  had  when  her 
delight,  mounting  into  rapture,  threatened  almost 
to  suffocate  her.  "  Oh,"  she  whispered,  "  isn't  it 
wonderful?  " 

He  did  not  answer;  the  sweetness  of  the  night 
intoxicated  him  beyond  power  of  speech.  The  air 
was  warm,  with  a  softness  about  it  that  was  not 
yet  languorous,  and  full  of  an  almost  piercing 
sweetness.  At  their  feet,  the  old,  sunken  garden, 
with  its  gleaming  white  narcissus,  spoke  eloquently 
of  a  storied  past.  From  the  distant  quarters,  the 
notes  of  song  and  of  stringed  instruments  came 
wafting  in  plaintive  diminuendo,  melted,  all,  into 
that  only  half-sad  minor  strain  so  expressive  of  the 
negro  race.  Above  their  heads,  the  pine  trees  whis- 
pered, and  the  ghost  of  a  breeze  that  was  spent 
far  away,  rustled  the  great  bunches  of  mistletoe 
in  the  bare  branches  of  the  monster  oaks. 

392 


Something  Set  Apart 

Felicity  sat  down  where  she  was,  there  could 
be  no  better  vantage  point,  and  Morton,  drop- 
ping down  beside  her,  kept  silence  for  a  long  while. 
Presently,  watching  her  half-averted  face  intently 
in  the  silvery  light,  he  saw  two  tears  trickle  slowly 
down. 

'  What  is  it — dear?  "  he  asked,  leaning  toward 
her. 

"  It's  so  beautiful  it — hurts,"  she  said,  laying 
her  closed  hand  again  at  her  breast,  as  if  the  pain 
were  there. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "  if  it  can 
be  as  beautiful — There?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  know.  I  can't 
imagine  our  human  nature,  however  it's  altered  by 
the  great  change,  in  the  midst  of  continual  beauty 
like  this.  We — I  know  so  well  how  it's  the  fleet- 
ingness, the  rarity  of  moments  like  this,  that  give 
them  their  ecstasy.  You  see  how  old  I  am!  I'm 
old  enough  not  to  wish  this  could  last  always." 

"  And  old  enough,  aren't  you?  "  he  added,  so- 
berly, "  /  am — not  to  regret  any  of  the  pain  you've 
suffered  that's  helped  to  make  this  moment  won- 
derful?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  intent,  eager — 
confidence  and  questioning  rushing  at  once  to  her 
lips  and  struggling,  each,  for  first  expression.  And 
then  she  caught  her  breath,  half  fearfully,  para- 
lyzed with  the  sudden  rapture  of  this  realization  r 

393 


Felicity 


Morton  had  his  father's  stature  and  was  big  of 
frame  and  strongly  built,  but  his  features  he  owed 
mostly  to  The  Old  Man,  and  never  had  Felicity 
marked  the  resemblance  as  to-night ;  as  he  sat  there, 
in  that  faint,  fairy  light,  the  dreams  of  long,  wist- 
ful years  seemed  to  have  come  true  and  he  who 
had  irradiated  life  for  her  seemed  to  have  come 
back  to  her,  with  a  difference,  a  marvellous  dif- 
ference. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  speaking  less  to  him,  really, 
than  to  herself,  as  if  she  were  tracing  the  steps 
by  which  he  had  come  to  her,  "  you  know  the  value 
of  pain,  of  hurt,  of  loneliness,  of  disappointment? 
You  have  wrestled  with  all  these  angels  and  refused 
to  let  them  go  until  they  blessed  you?  You  feel 
it's  wonderful  to  have  lived  and — found  things 
out?  to  have  lived  and  learned  to  triumph?  " 

She  spoke  low,  and  brokenly,  but  the  ring  in 
her  voice  at  the  end  had  a  thrill  in  it  like  nothing 
else  that  Morton  could  remember  to  have  heard, 
ever.  He  had  not  seen  her  in  nearly  a  year,  and 
not  often,  all  told,  since  Vincent's  death.  He  had 
known  a  little  of  the  struggle  she  went  through 
after  the  tragedy,  but  more  by  hearsay  and  by 
tacit  understanding  than  by  word  of  mouth  to  him. 
There  had  never,  really,  been  anything  even  border- 
ing on  confidence  between  them  since  that  night, 
six  years  ago,  when  she  had  taken  him  off  guard 
and  wrung  from  him  that  look  of  anguished  appeal. 

394 


Something  Set  Apart 

He  had  wondered — wistfully  all  the  time,  wildly, 
some  of  the  time  while  he  stood  aloof  and  dared 
not  try  to  help  her — if  she  had  interpreted  that 
look  aright;  but  her  manner  was  inscrutable.  He 
was  a  little  surprised,  to-night,  at  the  quickness  of 
her  response  to  his  mood  for  confidence. 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  with 
a  stumbling  sort  of  hesitancy  in  sharp  contrast  to 
her  quick  eagerness,  "  I  don't  know  that  I  have 
triumphed — don't  feel  that  I  have — but  I've 
learned  to  endure  and — and  even  to  be  glad  that 
I  was  called  on  to  do  it.  That  is,  not  glad,  exactly 
— that  seems  like  forgetting  her  suffering — but  I 
can  see  what  it  has  done  for  me — what  I  am  that 
I  couldn't  have  been  except  for  little  Sadie  and  her 
dependence  on  me.  I  did  a  little  for  her — not 
much,  I'm  afraid,  but  what  I  could — yes,  God 
knows !  what  I  could — but  it  wasn't  anything  like 
what  she  did  for  me: — my  debt  to  her  is  all  unpaid 
— unpayable." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  it  is  one  of  the  miracles — 
like  what  childhood  does  for  us,  only  different, 
quite  different.  It  says,  in  the  Bible,  somewhere, 
something  about  God  having  chosen  the  weak 
things  of  the  world  to  confound  the  mighty.  I 
think  He  does  more — He  chooses  them  to  develop 
the  mighty;  they  are  His  great  illuminators  of  the 
truths  about  the  spirit.  We  despise  them  only  if 
we're  blind,  foolish,  untaught.  I've  seen  such 

395 


Felicity 


things,  in  the  last  year  or  two!  Why,  all  the 
bravery  and  sweetness  in  the  world  are  born  of  the 
weak  things  and  their  claim  on  the  mighty!  All 
the  resolute  souls  have  been  helped  by  the  irreso- 
lute! And  I  think — yes,  I  believe  I  know — that 
God  loves  the  irresolute  souls  and  even  honors 
them,  just  as  well.  They  do  their  work  in  the 
world,  they  breed  strength  and  foster  tenderness — 
almost  lay  down  their  lives,  we  might  say,  that 
others  through  them  may  live  the  more  abundantly. 
Oh,  don't  you  believe  it's  all  counted  to  them  for 
honor,  somehow,  somewhere  ?  That  somehow  it's 
all  made  glorious  to  them  for  their  vicarious  sacri- 
fice, and  when  we  see  them  again,  we  shall  under- 
stand? " 

Her  tears  were  falling  fast,  now,  and  Morton's 
own  eyes  were  blinding  full. 

"  Oh,  these  past  two  years,"  she  went  on,  "  what 
they've  been  to  me!  First,  I  struggled  so  fiercely 
— not  against  suffering,  so  much  as  against  having 
the  world  know  I  suffered.  I  resented  pity  so !  I, 
who  was  used  only  to — well,  to  what  I  called  tri- 
umph. People  pried  into  my  private  life,  they  dis- 
cussed it  in  print — you  know!  They  shouted  my 
sacredest  affairs  from  the  housetops.  It  was  hor- 
rible! I  hated  the  whole  world!  And  then — I 
began  to  feel  the  difference  in  people;  they  showed 
me,  in  spite  of  my  sullenness,  a  side  of  themselves, 
in  my  sorrow,  they'd  never  shown  me  in  my  pros- 

396 


Something  Set  Apart 

perity.  Lots  of  people  did  the  tenderest  things  for 
me — people  who  had  seemed,  before,  as  if  they'd 
like  nothing  better  than  to  see  me  lose  my  pitiful 
eminence.  You  see,  I  did  things  for  them  in  my 
weakness  and  my  hurt  that  I'd  never  been  able  to 
do  for  them  in  my  success — I  brought  out  their 
sympathy,  where  before  I'd  brought  out  only  their 
envy ;  I  was  worth  more  to  them  in  my  abasement 
than  in  my  pride — did  them  a  sweeter  service. 
And  then  it  began  to  come  home  to  me  what  The 
Old  Man  had  said  to  me,  when  I  didn't  under- 
stand, about  this  very  thing.  I  remembered  the 
summer  of  '81,  when  I  was  back  north  for  my 
vacation  from  the  frontier  circuit,  and  we  were  at 
Nantucket,  and  the  news  came  of  Garfield's  assas- 
sination. We  were  sitting  down  on  the  sands,  The 
Old  Man  and  I,  and  he  said,  *  Well,  if  Garfield 
dies,  he'll  owe  his  canonization  to  that  poor  fool's 
bullet.  Providence  was  kind  even  to  mighty  Lin- 
coln— and  kinder  to  his  uncomprehending  coun- 
try— when  poor,  beautiful,  misguided  Wilkes 
Booth  sped  that  bullet  into  the  greatest  brain  of 
modern  times.  If  Lincoln  had  lived,  the  North 
would  have  turned  and  rended  him,  sure,  for  his 
bigness  of  purpose  toward  the  conquered  South; 
the  very  people  who  wept  for  him  would  have 
cursed  him  for  a  magnanimity  they  couldn't  under- 
stand. That  poor  boy  gave  him,  an  idol,  to  the 
nation,  and  saved  him  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his 

397 


Felicity 


life.  It's  always  a  wonderful  gift  to  people  to  let 
'em  be  sorry  for  you,'  he  went  on.  '  And  it  was  a 
great  thing  for  the  nation,  just  at  that  time,  to  have 
that  tremendous  sorrow.  Now,  I'm  not  much  on 
religion  by  the  preachers'  way  of  thinking,  but  I've 
seen  with  my  own  eyes  most  of  the  great  truths 
proved,  and  I  know  it's  true  of  more  than  God 
Almighty — that  it's  true  of  the  least  of  us  all — 
that  about  "  And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up,  will  draw  all 
men  unto  me.'1  You  can't  draw  'em  any  other 
way;  your  triumphs  only  make  'em  mean  and  en- 
vious— that's  human  nature — and  even  your  pri- 
vate griefs  don't  move  'em.  Gethsemane  doesn't 
count,  to  the  world — it  isn't  enough ;  it's  Golgotha 
that  moves  hearts,  and  you've  got  to  be  willing,  as 
He  was,  to  drink  the  whole  cup,  to  the  dregs,  that 
the  world  may  weep  with  you  and  be  saved.  Not 
all  of  us  are  chosen  for  "  lifting  up  " — though  I 
think  all  of  us  would  pray  to  be,  if  we  were  wise. 
I've  never  been  chosen.  The  things  I've  suffered 
have  been  things  the  world  did  not  know  about. 
I've  made  people  laugh,  and  I've  made  them  cry, 
but  I've  never  made  them  sorry  for  me.  I'd  have 
had  it  otherwise,  if  I  could;  I've  envied  Charles 
Lamb  the  shadow  of  the  madhouse — the  world 
owes  a  great  deal  to  that.  Don't  you  shirk 'the 
"  lifting  up  "  if  it  comes  to  you,'  he  said,  '  be  glad 
if  your  sorrows  can  help  others,  instead  of  helping 
only  you.  There's  nothing  you  can  do  for  the 

398 


Something  Set  Apart 

world  like  putting  up  a  plucky  fight  against  heavy 
odds — odds  it  can  see,  and  understand!  '  But 
I  wasn't  glad,  at  first;  I  didn't  understand. 
Then,  things  began  to  come  home  to  me.  I  remem- 
bered Clo  Detmar,  that  Memorial  Day  by  his 
grave.  *  Maybe  you've  got  your  troubles  like  the 
rest  of  us,'  she  said,  '  but  we  can't  see  'em,  and  so 
we  can't  be  sorry  for  'em.'  I  did  have  them,  of 
course,  but  I  had  so  much  superficial  fortune  that 
people  were  blinded  by  the  glitter  of  it  and  hated 
me  because  I  had  so  much.  They  didn't  know  how 
the  very  temperament  that  made  me  famous,  made 
me  suffer  intolerably.  They  didn't  know  that  my 
success  made  me  so  lonely  I  could  hardly  bear  it. 
They  didn't  know  any  of  these  things — they  never 
know  them,  somehow.  But  they  knew  I  blamed 
myself  for  Vincent's  death — and  that  softened  all 
hearts  to  me,  it  seemed.  Since  then,  I've  got 
closer,  oh!  ever  so  much  closer  to  the  heart  of 
things.  I  know,  now,  how  lonely  everybody  is — 
everybody !  each  with  his  own  heart  hunger  that's 
never  satisfied.  And  when  I  play  to  people  now, 
I  play  to  lonely  folks — I  send  my  heart  out  to 
them  across  the  footlights,  and  I  can  feel  their 
hearts  reaching  across  to  me;  they  know  I'm  sad 
and  lonely,  too.  But  I'm  not  lonely,  now,  as  I 
used  to  be !  I  have  this  new  sense  of  belonging  to 
a  big,  human  family — of  being,  not  apart,  but  just 
one  of  the  many,  many.  See,"  she  finished,  after  a 

399 


Felicity 

little  pause,  "  what  Vincent  did  for  me  with  his 
great  sacrifice !  " 

Her  face  was  uplifted  as  she  spoke  and,  all  tear- 
stained  as  it  was,  Morton  thought  he  had  never 
seen  such  a  look  of  radiant  happiness. 

"  Felicity,"  he  whispered,  and  stole  a  hand, 
almost  fearsomely,  to  hers  on  the  grass  beside  her. 
That  was  all — the  understanding,  the  pleading, 
the  denial  of  worthiness  and  the  expression  of 
great  longing,  were  all  in  the  tone.  The  hand  over 
which  his  closed,  trembled,  then  lay  still  under  his 
clasp.  The  silence  that  fell  on  them  was  fuller 
of  understanding  than  any  words  could  have  been. 

That  night  when  Felicity  went  to  her  room  she 
paused  at  Frances'  door  and  tapped,  ever  so  lightly. 
Bidden  to  "  come  in,"  she  went  over  to  the  bed 
and,  bending  over,  said : 

"  Kiss  me  good-night — Mother — for  I'm  the 
happiest  woman  in  God's  wide  world  to-night!  " 

Late  Sunday  afternoon  Frances  wound  up  a  fine 
long  visit  with  Morton  by  saying: 

"  Now,  go  find  her,  dear.  She  slipped  away  to 
give  us  this  opportunity,  but  I  know  where  she  is, 
and  I  know  she's  waiting  for  you.  This  is  her 
favorite  hour  of  all  the  day,  and  I  know  she  wants 
you  to  enjoy  it  with  her.  You'll  find  her — you 
know  where  ?  " 

He  nodded,  kissed  her,  and  was  gone.  It  had 
400 


Something  Set  Apart 

been  a  glorious  day,  all  sunshine  and  fragrance  and 
rapturous  companionship.  There  was  summer 
warmth  in  the  air  and  more  than  summer  beauty  in 
the  bloom,  that  thrilled  Morton  with  its  delicacy 
as  no  luxuriance  of  full-leaved  summer  had  ever 
done. 

They  had  risen  betimes,  that  morning,  and  taken 
an  early  train  into  Vicksburg — along  with  a  hun- 
dred or  so  of  the  Briarwood  negroes  bent  on  a 
holiday — where  they  hired  a  trap  and  a  driver- 
guide  and  drove  miles  over  the  lines  of  investment 
and  defence  which  Congress  was  then  considering 
the  advisability  of  making  into  the  macadam  road- 
ways of  a  great  National  Park. 

Morton  was  deeply  interested  in  the  natural 
memorials  of  the  siege,  and  Felicity  loved  the  care- 
ful explicitness  with  which  he  tried  to  make  it  all 
plain  to  Sarah  Frances.  Poor  Morton !  He  was 
almost  a  stranger  to  his  own  child,  and  Felicity's 
heart  ached  as  she  noted  his  rather  elaborate 
courtesy  to  the  little  girl,  so  different  from  that 
confidential  companionship  that  should  have  been 
theirs  and  that,  alas !  seemed  as  little  imminent  as 
ever. 

There  was  a  vast  tangle  of  affairs  that  neither 
she  nor  Morton  had  spoken  of  last  night — not 
because  they  forgot  them;  they  were  not  young 
enough  for  that! — but  because  they  were  fain  to 
snatch  that  evening's  ecstasy  clear  of  all  question- 

401 


Felicity 

ing.  If  they  had  been  very  much  younger,  they 
might  have  believed  that  all  life  would  be  like 
those  moonlit  moments;  if  they  had  been  only  a 
little  less  schooled  than  they  were,  they  would  have 
felt  so  sure  the  joy  could  not  last,  they  would  have 
killed  it  with  their  doubting.  But  they  knew — 
these  two — that  it  was  one  of  those  transfigura- 
tions, given  at  some  time  to  most  lives,  that  must  be 
received  on  the  mountain-top,  care-free  and  isolate, 
even  though  one  must  come  immediately  down 
and  resume  ministry  to  the  less-inspired.  Neither 
of  them  had  any  expectation  that  life  would  repeat 
for  them  the  glory  of  those  moments,  yet  to  neither 
of  them  would  life  ever  again  be  the  same  as 
before  the  memory  of  a  little  hour  made  their 
union  indissoluble;  and,  secure  in  that  sense  of 
oneness,  they  were  willing  to  take  up,  today,  the 
practical  possibilities. 

After  their  long  drive  they  had  caught  a  train 
back  to  Briarwood  in  time  for  a  late  dinner  at 
home.  Then,  everybody  took  a  nap,  or  pre- 
tended to,  and  when  Felicity  came  downstairs  at 
five  o'clock,  and  found  Morton  and  his  mother  and 
daughter  together,  Sarah  Frances  on  her  father's 
knee,  she  stole  softly  away  without  disturbing  them, 
and  took  her  way  along  the  hill-crest  to  the  little 
enclosure  where  Vincent  lay  at  rest  beside  that 
Robert  Fergus  to  whom  he  would  have  been  so 
strange  a  creature. 

402 


Something  Set  Apart 

Alec  McClintock  had  chosen  this  spot  with 
loving  care,  and  had  thrilled  with  a  fierce  joy  it 
was  well  Robert  Fergus  could  not  guess,  when  the 
Confederate  defence  of  the  river  chose  a  spot  just 
outside  the  burial  enclosure  to  set  one  of  its  best 
guns,  commanding  the  mighty  waterway  for 
several  miles  in  each  direction.  It  was  no  sac- 
rilege to  him  that  the  cannon's  roar  should  re- 
verberate above  Cecile's  grave  and  her  mother's. 
God  knew  it  was  in  defence  of  such  sacred  spots, 
not  for  their  niggers,  nor  even  for  their  state 
rights,  that  he  and  many  another  man  were 
fighting. 

Up  here,  where  the  cannon  had  been  set  because 
it  commanded  so  great  a  sweep  of  river,  one  got  a 
view  of  whose  glory  Felicity  never  tired.  She  had 
seen  many,  very  many,  of  the  world's  storied 
splendors,  but  none  of  them  gave  her  the  rapture 
this  stretch  of  country  gave,  seen  from  this  sacred 
spot. 

She  was  sitting,  when  Morton  came  to  find  her, 
not  in  the  enclosure,  but  outside,  on  the  very  crest 
of  the  hill,  close  beside  the  old  gun  which  the  Con- 
federates had  spiked  and  buried  in  the  river  be- 
fore the  narrowing  investment  lines  had  closed  in 
on  them.  Long  after  the  war  Alec  McClintock 
had  the  old  gun  dragged  from  the  ooze  beneath 
the  swift,  swerving  current,  and  restored  to  its 
place  of  former  command;  and  now,  in  this  month 

403 


Felicity 


of  March,  '98,  bluebirds  were  nesting  in  the 
silenced  cannon's  mouth. 

The  air  was  vocal  with  the  evensong  of  birds  as 
Felicity  sat  there.  Mating  was  in  its  glory,  new 
nests  were  everywhere,  maternal  hovering  and 
paternal  pride  in  new  responsibility,  were  flaunt- 
ing themselves  on  every  hand. 

Not  a  stone's  throw  south  of  where  she  sat,  the 
ground  dipped  suddenly,  precipitously,  into  one  of 
the  deep  ravines  or  "  bottoms  "  characteristic  of 
this  countryside;  and  from  far  down  in  the  cane- 
brake  that  choked  the  lush  bottom,  she  could  hear 
the  musical  tinkle  of  a  cowbell  as  some  soft-step- 
ping bossy  strayed  homeward  for  milking  time. 

Other  sounds  there  were  none,  though  when  a 
river  steamer  passed,  as  it  sometimes  did  at  the 
hour  of  the  afterglow — its  red  and  green  bow 
lights  reflected  in  long,  wavering  lines  in  the 
glassy  waters — she  could  hear  the  "  chug,  chug  " 
of  its  escape  valve  and  even,  at  times,  the  chant- 
ing sing-song  of  the  negro  roustabouts. 

Across  the  mighty  current  lay  the  Louisiana 
shores,  very  flat  and  low,  their  dense  woods  freshly 
green  and  growing  greener  almost  by  the  minute. 
Immediately  below  her,  on  the  "  flats,"  close  to  the 
current  with  its  unpredictable  whimsies,  was  a  strip 
of  land  inconceivably  rich  in  fertility  but  beyond  all 
words  precarious,  for  no  one  could  know  at  what 
time  the  river  would  wipe  it  out  of  existence  in 

404 


Something  Set  Apart 

a  night,  in  an  hour.  Still,  there  were  little,  white- 
washed cabins  on  its  miry,  cotton-furrowed  land, 
and  tiny  peach  trees  all  a-bloom,  and  even  a  weep- 
ing willow,  vivid  in  its  new  emerald  green  which 
showed  sharply  against  the  black,  oozy  earth  and 
the  brown  of  the  dead  cottonstalks. 

Morton  said  not  a  word  as  he  came  up  and  sat 
beside  her.  There  seemed,  at  times,  so  little  need 
of  speech  between  them  that  words  could  only 
spoil  the  perfection  of  their  communion. 

The  majestic  river  appeared  without  a  ripple, 
so  still  it  flowed  seaward.  The  sun,  slanting  low 
over  the  Louisiana  tree-tops,  seemed  to  decline 
reluctantly  on  so  perfect  a  day.  From  the  cabins 
below  them,  smoke  spirals  curled  into  the  still  air, 
telling  of  wood  thrown  on  smouldering  fires  for 
the  suppers  of  big  and  little  blacks  who  had  basked, 
all  day,  in  the  warm  sunshine. 

"  It  hardly  seems  possible,  does  it,"  said  Mor- 
ton, after  a  while,  his  mind  still  dwelling  on  the 
sights  of  the  morning  and  the  story  of  the  great 
siege,  "  that  only  a  generation  ago  men  climbed 
these  steep  hillsides  while  cannon  belched  death 
into  their  very  faces ;  and  tunnelled  underground  to 
blow  up  whole  hills,  with  their  batteries;  and  did 
all  those  other  things  we  know  about.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  anything  more  eloquent  of  peace 
than  this — "  indicating  with  a  motion  of  his  head 
the  scene  outspread  before  them. 

405 


Felicity 

"  I  suppose,"  she  answered,  slowly, 
of  the  peace  of  it  all  is — well,  as  great  as  it  is,  be- 
cause we  know  what  pain  was  here  once — what 
blood  flowed  on  these  hillsides.  Peace,  great  peace, 
always  comes  out  of  great  pain,  I  guess — out  of 
strife,  and  pain,  and — and  death.  One  under- 
stands— so  many  things — when  one  has — suf- 
fered." 

He  put  an  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  close, 
not  trusting  himself  to  answer.  As  they  sat  in 
silence,  the  sun  sank,  leaving  a  sky  brilliantly  gold 
and  red.  In  a  few  moments,  the  silver  flood 
stretching  mile  on  mile  beneath  them,  was  incarna- 
dined, like  a  sea  of  blood. 

"  Look !  "  she  whispered.    And  he  understood. 

Then  the  crimson  paled  to  rose,  shading  to  ame- 
thyst. The  world  was  graying  into  the  soft  mono- 
tone of  dusk;  only  the  pink  of  the  peach-blossoms 
was  faintly  colorful  when  one's  gaze  turned  land- 
ward from  the  Apocryphal  glories  of  river  and 
sky.  The  birdsong  was  hushed,  now,  the  straying 
cows  were  all  herded  for  the  evening  milking,  the 
stillness  had  become  profound.  Where  the  last 
touches  of  color  had  faded  from  the  west,  the  pale 
stars  were  shining. 

Then  Sarah  Frances  came  along  the  bluff  call- 
ing, "Father!  Father!" 

"  Here,  dear !  "  said  Felicity,  answering  for  him. 
And,  holding  a  hand  of  each,  Sarah  Frances  led 

406 


Something  Set  Apart 

them  home  to  tea.  On  the  front  gallery  she  re- 
leased their  hands,  to  run  in  ahead  of  them  and 
announce  their  coming. 

"  I  found  'em,  Gran'ma,"  she  cried,  "  out  by 
the  cannon — talking!  " 

In  the  long  hall,  just  outside  the  dining-room 
door,  Felicity  looked  into  Morton's  eyes  for  one 
instant.  "  We  weren't  talking,"  she  said,  "  and 
we  should  have  been." 

He  understood. 

"  And  you  must  go  to-night?  " 

Morton  nodded.  He  was  not  a  man  of  many 
words,  but,  somehow,  one  did  not  miss  anything 
that  was  necessary  to  his  understanding — his 
silences  were  eloquent.  And  there  was  that  in  his 
look  as  he  met  her  inquiring  glance,  which  thrilled 
her — that  which  said,  as  no  words  could  have  said, 
"  What  matter?  There  are  things  to  be  said,  and 
I'm  willing  enough  to  say  them,  when  a  time  comes ; 
but  you're  mine,  and  nothing  can  keep  you  from  me 
— so  what  is  there  to  talk  about,  after  all?  " 

After  he  was  gone  that  night,  Felicity  and 
Frances  sat  late — talking.  "  I  don't  see  what's 
to  become  of  us,"  said  Felicity,  very  soberly.  "  I, 
—God  knows  how  little  I  care  for  the — the  emolu- 
ments of  my  work,  how  I  hate  many  of  the 
things  about  it;  but  it's  my  life — I  have  to  do  the 
work,  not  for  what  it  brings  me,  but  for  the  sheer 

407 


Felicity 

necessity  of  doing  it.  Why,  I'm  restless  now, 
restless  as  I  can  be,  because  I've  learned  so  much 
this  winter  that  I  crave  expression  for.  I've  sim- 
ply never  played  'Toinette — never  played  it!  I 
didn't  know  how!  though  the  world  thought  I 
did.  And  I've  never  more  than  half  played 
Marianna,  or  that  wonderful  creature,  Ellen 
Mary.  I've  got  to  play  'em!  Not  to  put  my 
fresh  knowledge  into  their  portrayal  would  be 
like — like  losing  speech  and  the  power  to  write, 
at  a  time  when  you're  bursting  with  great,  new 
ideas.  I  have  to  do  it!  If  it  costs  me  everything 
else  I  care  for  on  earth,  I  have  to  do  it — that's 
the  joy  and  the  pity  of  this  thing  that's  in  me!  I 
want  companionship  more  than  I  want  anything 
on  this  earth,  or  in  Heaven,  but  I've  got  to  do  my 
work.  If  I  took  companionship  at  the  cost  of  my 
work,  I  couldn't  be  happy — no,  nor  if  I  took  it 
at  the  cost  of  Morton's  work  in  the  world.  He 
ought  to  have  a  home,  for  him  and  Sarah  Frances, 
and  a  chance  to  live  his  life  in  the  blessed,  familiar 
way;  he's  earned  it!  But  I  can't  give  it  to  him — 
not  now,  anyway.  I'm  driven  by  this  thing  inside 
me  that's  stronger  than  I  am.  Oh,  it's  cruel,  this 
way  my  feet  are  set  in !  Other  ways  are  not  so 
hard — don't  cost  so  much!  Women  who  write 
and  paint  and  do  other  things,  accomplishing 
things,  can  have  homes  and  husbands  and — and 
children.  But  there's  never  been  a  time  when  I 

408 


Something  Set  Apart 

didn't  belong  to  some  one  more  than  to  myself 
— when  I  wasn't  under  contract  to  managers  for 
years  ahead;  when  my  retirement,  even  for  a  sea- 
son, into  home  life,  wouldn't  have  worked  hard- 
ship to  scores  of  people  whose  very  bread  and 
butter  was  dependent  on  my  presence  on  the  stage ! 
Look  what  this  winter  has  cost  Garvish,  and  a  host 
of  others!  Now,  even  if  I  didn't  have  this  thing 
inside  of  me  that  makes  me  work,  I'd  feel  as  if  I 
owed  my  best  efforts  to  Garvish  for  several  years, 
to  repay  him  for  this.  I  don't  love  Garvish,  but 
I  love  my  own  peace  of  mind  too  well  to  try  to  be 
happy  while  I'm  neglecting  my  obligations.  Then 
think  of  my  marrying  Morton  and  feeling  I  ought 
to  be  making  a  home  for  him  and  his  child — 
wanting  to  be  with  him,  more  than  I  want  anything 
else ! — and  going  on  with  my  work,  because  I  have 
to.  Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  Fate  mocked  me?  I 
don't  expect  to  be  happy,  continuously  happy! 
Nobody  is,  that  I  know  of,  or  ever  has  been.  And 
it  isn't  myself  I'm  thinking  of — it's  Morton,  and 
Sarah  Frances !  " 

14  Don't  you  suppose  Morton  has  thought  of  all 
these  things?"  said  Frances — who  knew  that  he 
had. 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  must  have  thought  of  them." 

"  But  they  didn't  deter  him?  " 

"  No."  Felicity  smiled  exquisitely,  as  she  shook 
her  head. 

409 


Felicity 


"  And  you  know  that  he  hasn't  any  idea  of  ask- 
ing you  to  sacrifice  everything  for  him?  You 
know  that's  not  like  Morton?" 

"No,  he  won't  ask  anything;  but  I  shall  feel 
the  demand,  even  if  he  doesn't  make  it — or 
allow  it." 

"  Oh,  my  dearie,"  cried  Frances,  "  I'm  too  old 
for  such  a  hard  nut !  " 

"  I  wonder,"  mused  Felicity,  "  what  The  Old 
Man  would  have  said." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  hard  to  guess." 

"  Please  guess,  then !  " 

"  Well,  I  think  he  would  have  said — can't  you 
see  how  he  would  have  narrowed  his  eyes,  in  that 
quizzical  way  he  had  of  looking  at  you,  and  drawn 
in  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  as  he  said,  '  The  mean- 
est sin  is  mistrust.  Nothing  that  can  happen  to 
you  from  over-reaching  is  so  deadly  as  what  hap- 
pens to  you  from  refusing  to  reach  high  for  fear 
you  fall.'  Can't  you  shut  your  eyes  and  hear  him 
say,  in  that  peculiar,  vibrant  voice  of  his  that  made 
his  least  remark  seem  memorable,  '  The  luck  o' 
the  road,  dear  child!  The  vagabond  spirit's  the 
spirit  that  enriches  the  world,  and  it  takes  what 
comes,  cheerily,  and  travels  light.  You  can't  make 
to-morrow — not  with  your  best  calculations;  you 
can  only  take  it  as  it  comes.  The  past  is  yours, 
and  one  moment  more — the  present.  The  future's 
going  to  be  rough,  however  carefully  you  plan, 

410 


Something  Set  Apart 

and  the  rough  places  when  you  come  to  them  won't 
be  any  easier  because  you  can  remember  how  dear 
you  paid  in  the  hope  of  escaping  them.'  Don't 
you  feel  he'd  have  said  just  this?  Oh,  my  dear — " 
Frances  broke  down,  sobbing;  the  fervor  of  her 
pleading  had  been  too  much  for  her. 

Felicity  comforted  her  without  speaking — prob- 
ably the  best  comfort,  always.  After  a  while  she 
said,  "  I  didn't  know  you  cared — so  much!  " 

"  I  never  cared  more  about  anything,"  returned 
Frances,  warmly,  "  and  I  can't  tell  whether  I  care 
most  for  Morton's  sake,  or  for  yours,  or  for  my 
own — or  for  father's.  He  would  have  loved  it  so 
— and  never  had  a  bit  of  patience  with  your  hesi- 
tation !  " 

'  Yes,"  murmured  Felicity,  with  a  wonderful 
look  on  her  face,  "  and  Morton  will  have  none, 
either!  We  haven't  mentioned  these  things,  but 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  not  one  of  them  makes 
the  smallest  bit  of  difference  to  him — that's  the 
glory  of  it !  Or  to  me,"  she  added,  archly.  "  I 
guess  I  just  talk  about  them  to  you  so  you'll  know 
I'm  aware  o'  them.  That  was  my  New  England 
conscience  that  was  talking,"  she  went  on,  with 
the  delicious  whimsicality  of  manner  which  always 
characterized  her  keen  findings  about  herself — her 
artistic  appreciation  of  her  human  inconsistencies — 
"  the  part  of  me  that  would  have  been  a  Yankee 
spinster,  thriving  on  renunciation,  like  dear  Aunt 

411 


Felicity 

Elie !  I'm  glad  for  that  part  of  me !  "  she  cried, 
her  eyes  shining  with  unshed  tears,  u  it  has  helped 
me  to  understand  great  things — great  things! 
But  I'm  glad  for  the  other  part  of  me,  too — for 
the  Cavalier  spirit,  the  wonderful  apprenticeship 
in  vagabondage  under  that  great  Old  Man — for 
the  part  of  me  that  loves  and  trusts  and  will  not 
be  denied!  " 

There  was  something  superb  in  her  tone  and 
gesture — in  her  beauty  and  her  passionateness,  in 
the  lovely  traces  of  suffering  she  wore  at  once  with 
the  triumph  of  love,  of  conscious  power — that 
made  Frances  Allston's  pulses  throb.  She  was  so 
much  alive,  this  rare,  sweet  Felicity!  She  called 
to  one's  deadening  sensibilities  and  made  them 
flame,  again,  into  acute  desire. 

"  Felicity,"  said  Frances,  looking  at  her,  "  you 
are  something  set  apart  to  a  special  purpose.  You 
make  life  more  vivid,  more  desirable,  than  any  one 
I've  ever  known — not  even  excepting  father.  You 
— you  must  go  on  with  this  great  ministry  of  yours, 
dear,  as  long  as  you  can.  You  must  sigh  for  the 
common  lot  and  not  have  it — because  it  is  your 
exquisite  gift  to  kindle  the  sharers  of  the  common 
lot — like  me — with  a  new  sense  of  what  life  may 
be.  We  need  you,  dear — it's  so  easy  to  grow  unin- 
spired! And  it's  worth  a  sacrifice,  to  be  this  to 
the  world !  " 


412 


CHAPTER    XXIII 


"  THE    BRUSHWOOD    PILES 


FELICITY  had  been  booked  for  a  long  spring 
run  in  New  York,  concluding  her  season; 
nearly  every  booking  of  the  season  had  had  to  be 
cancelled,  after  her  collapse  in  November,  but  she 
had  written  from  Briarwood  before  leaving  there 
for  New  Orleans,  early  in  February,  that  she  felt 
she  could  play  the  New  York  engagement  of  eight 
weeks  if  the  theatre  were  to  be  had,  and  Garvish 
could  assemble  a  suitable  company  and  make  other 
arrangements. 

Garvish  could;  it  took  manipulation  to  man- 
age all  this,  but  practically  anything  can  be  done 
for  the  most  profitable  actress  on  the  English- 
speaking  stage. 

Accordingly,  the  last  week  of  March  found 
Felicity  "  tempting  Providence  "  with  the  New 
York  east  winds,  as  her  physician  said.  But  she 
only  laughed,  knowing  that  the  things  that  had 
made  her  frail  and  tired  beyond  endurance  were 
not  such  winds  as  doctors  take  note  of;  and  that, 

413 


Felicity 


now  she  was  so  full  of  things  to  express,  chance  to 
express  herself  meant  health  to  her,  whatever 
winds  might  blow. 

She  opened,  the  first  Monday  in  April,  playing 
her  old,  familiar  'Toinette  with  a  verve  that  in- 
deed made  the  character  seem  hitherto  unknown. 

"  She  makes  you  feel,"  said  a  woman,  coming 
out  of  the  theatre  that  first  night,  "  as  if  she'd 
been  inside  of  you,  and  learned  things  about  you 
that  you  thought  God  hardly  knew  about  you,  and 
that  then  she  got  you  here  and  showed  yourself  to 
you — yourself  and  herself  and  'Toinette,  and  the 
fat  woman  beside  you,  in  the  purple  waist,  and  the 
thin  girl  in  front,  with  the  plain  face  and  passion- 
ate eyes,  and  the  lady  in  the  box,  with  the  blond 
hair  and  the  diamond  breastplate,  and  —  all 
human  nature;  so  you  never  can  look  at  any  of 
it  again  and  see  it  single,  in  its  meanness  or  its 
might,  but  always  see  it  double  in  its  weakness  and 
its  strength." 

A  man  who  knew  Felicity,  was  just  ahead 
of  this  woman,  in  the  slow,  outpouring  crush, 
and  he  repeated  the  remark  to  her  when  he  had  a 
chance. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  that's  what  I  try 
to  do — though  I  should  never  have  been  able  to 
describe  it  so  fluently."  Which  was  a  bit  of 
charming  hypocrisy,  for  Felicity  was  as  fluent  as 
anybody,  and  knew  it.1 

414 


"The  Brushwood  Piles" 

She  had  promised  Morton  she  would  marry 
htm  "  when  work  was  over  "  in  early  June.  Then 
she  could  have  her  summer  in  Chicago,  and — well, 
beyond  that  she  would  not  try  to  think. 

Then — why,  it  was  the  very  day  after  her  open- 
ing night — her  letters  to  him  began  to  take  on  a 
note  of  impatience  that  thrilled  him  with  a  deep,  a 
wonderful  delight. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  new  'Toinette," 
she  wrote,  that  Tuesday  when  she  was  telling  him 
of  its  triumphs,  "  there  was  so  much  in  it  that  you, 
better  than  any  one  else,  could  understand — that 
never  would  have  been  in  it  save  for  you  and  your 
understanding!  " 

Next  it  was:  "  I  am  still  re-investing  Marianna 
with  new  knowledge.  I  never  did  justice  before  to 
Marie's  superb  love ;  I  always  supposed  that  when 
she  went  back  to  her  queen's  estate,  the  obligations 
she  saw  she  could  not  lay  aside  would  outweigh 
everything  else  with  her,  even  her  love.  But 
now  I  don't  believe  that,  for  I've  come  back  into 
my  kingdom,  you  see,  and  instead  of  my  responsi- 
bilities crowding  out  love,  they  only  give  him  a 
greater  field  for  his  sway ;  for  whatever  I  do  or  sigh 
to  leave  undone,  I  am  conscious,  always,  of  that 
one  who  would  understand." 

Then :  "  I  am  having  a  very  fine  time,  as  fine 
times  go.  There  are  a  good  many  interesting  peo- 
ple in  town  and  I'm  seeing  something  of  a  num- 

415 


Felicity 


her  of  them  in  quite  delightful  ways,  all  informal. 
But  there's  something  so  teasingly  '  touch  and  go  ' 
about  even  the  best  social  intercourse — something 
that  scratches  the  surface  of  things  so  lightly — 
that  it  leaves  one  very  unsatisfied.  I  doubt  if  more 
than  two  persons  can  ever  be  concerned  in  any 
real  good  time,  any  fellowship  worth  men- 
tioning." 

As  the  month  wore  on  these  little  notes  of  half- 
confessed  longing  for  him,  which  thrilled  him 
more  than  her  way  of  concluding  a  letter  with  "  I 
want  you,  every  minute !  "  grew  more  and  more 
wistful ;  and  toward  the  end  of  April  Morton  pre- 
sented himself,  unannounced,  in  New  York  on  a 
Friday,  to  spend  Saturday  and  Sunday  with  her. 
He  saw  her  play  'Toinette  Friday  night,  and  after 
the  play  went  home  with  her. 

The  cab  that  came  for  her  she  sent  away,  say- 
ing she  preferred  to  walk;  and  together  they 
strolled  up  gaudy,  glittering  Broadway,  full  of 
zest  for  its  sights  and  sounds,  its  swarming  human 
comedy,  but  willing  to  leave  it  all  when  Felicity's 
cross-street  was  reached,  and  to  wander  off  into  the 
darkness  that  led  eastward  toward  Fifth  Ave- 
nue— talking  of  many  things. 

At  home,  in  her  beautiful  dining-room,  she  had 
a  supper  set  out  for  him — ostensibly  for  her,  too, 
but  really  for  him,  though  he  ate  nearly  as  little 
as  she  did.  Talk  across  a  table  is  always  worth 

416 


"The  Brushwood  Piles" 

making  a  pretence  for,  however,  and  they  both 
enjoyed  it,  and  thought  of  meals  on  meals  to 
come,  when  they  would  sit  together  in  this  cosy 
companionship.  He  remembered,  however,  that 
to-morrow  was  her  day  of  double  duty  and  he  must 
not  keep  her  up  late. 

It  was  tantalizing!  She  seemed  to  belong  to 
the  public  so  much  and  to  him  so  little.  But  Mor- 
ton refused  to  let  himself  think  of  this.  If  the  time 
ever  came  when  he  could  have  her  more  fully  for 
himself,  he  would  rejoice;  but  until  it  came — God 
knew  how  grateful  he  was  for  the  radiance  she 
lent  his  life  whether  he  was  with  her  or  not. 

It  was  delicious,  though,  to  have  her  say,  when 
she  went  to  the  door  with  him  to  bid  him  good- 
night, in  sweet,  simple  fashion  on  the  threshold, 
"  It's  so  glorious  to  have  you,  dear !  But  how  am 
I  ever  going  to  give  you  up  again?  " 

"  Only  for  a  month — this  time,"  he  suggested, 
trying  to  be  hopeful. 

"  How  can  you  say  '  only  '  a  month  ?  "  she  asked 
him,  with  pretty  reproachfulness. 

"  I  can  say  it  because  I've  practised  it  so  much, 
I  guess,"  he  returned,  laughing.  "  By  talking 
handsomely  about  '  only  a  month,'  I  almost  make 
myself  believe  that  it's  not  such  an  awful  long 
time!" 

"  Morton,"  she  said,  suddenly  changing  the  sub- 
ject, and  there  was  witchery  in  her  face  as  she 

417 


Felicity 

laughed  up  at  him,  "  what  a  summer  it's  going  to 
be !  I'm  going  to  keep  house  for  you,  with  such 
a  vengeance !  I'm  going  to  wear  little  '  swiss-y  ' 
aprons,  with  pink  bows  on  'em,  and  every  day  I'm 
going  to  make  you  a  cherry  pie;  and  when  you 
come  home,  evenings,  I'll  be  sitting  on  the  front 
porch,  with  Sarah  Frances  in  her  little  rocker  beside 
me,  and  both  of  us'll  be — crocheting!  " 

There  was  that  beneath  her  conscious  ridiculous- 
ness which  was  so  wistful  it  brought  the  tears  to 
his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  wonderful  Felicity!  "  he  murmured,  hold- 
ing her  very  close,  "  it  doesn't  seem  possible !  " 

"What  doesn't?" 

'  That  you'll  ever  really  be  there,  in  my  life 
as  you've  been  in  my  dreams.  I've  dreamed  you 
there  so  much,  my  Felicity,  and  waked,  to  find  it 
only  a  dream — that — I  don't  know;  I  try  not  to 
be  faint-hearted — but  I  wonder  if  such  exquisite 
dreams  ever  come  true?  " 

She  raised  her  head  suddenly  from  his  breast. 
"  Have  you  that  fear,  too?  "  she  asked,  sharply. 

"  Have  you?  "  he  echoed. 

"  It  haunts  me  night  and  day,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Felicity,"  he  said,  with  sudden  inspiration, 
"marry  me  now,  dear;  marry  me  to-morrow.  It 
can't  be  any  harder  to  leave  you  when  I  know 
you're  my  wife,  and  it  maybe  easier;  that  taunting, 
tugging  disbelief  will  leave  me,  perhaps.  Maybe 

418 


"The  Brushwood  Piles" 

it's  a  strange  request — I'd  have  to  leave  you  Mon- 
day— perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  ask  you,  but " 

"But  I  want  to,"  she  whispered. 

He  asked  her  her  preferences  about  their  wed- 
diiag,  but  she  expressed  few,  save  as  to  the  place. 

"  I'd  like  it  to  be  in  The  Little  Church  Around 
the  Corner,"  she  said.  "  I  know  that  it's  become 
'  common  ' — kind  of  a  Gretna  Green  for  ill-ad- 
vised marriages  among  theatre-folk,  and  all  that. 
But  I  love  it !  I  was  there  with  The  Old  Man  in 
the  fall  of  '70  when  George  Holland  was  buried 
from  it,  and  it  got  its  familiar  name.  I  was 
there,  too,  when  dear  Edwin  Booth  lay  there.  I 
go  there  a  great  deal,  when  I'm  in  New  York,  and 
sit  in  a  quiet  corner  and — think.  I  love  it  when 
the  afternoon  sun  comes  pouring  in  the  splendid 
Transfiguration  window,  and  the  birds  are  twitter- 
ing their  vespers  in  the  thick  vines  outside.  I  love 
the  Players'  Club  window  to  Booth,  with  its  up- 
lifting inscription  to  him  '  as  one,  in  suffering  all, 
that  suffers  nothing,  A  man  that  fortune's  buffets 
and  rewards  Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks.'  If 
you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  slip  in  there,  after  the 
matinee,  and  come  out,  your  wife !  " 

She  dreaded  the  inevitable  publicity,  but  at  least 
the  evening  papers  would  not  have  it,  and  Sunday 
they  would  spend  in  the  country  where,  perhaps  she 
would  not  be  recognized  as  Mrs.  Allston.  After 

419 


Felicity 


that — well!   one  must  "be  a  man"   about  what 
one  could  not  help,  as  The  Old  Man  had  said. 

They  spent  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  morning, 
wandering  about  the  least-frequented  malls  and 
pathways  of  the  Park,  without  in  the  least  know- 
ing, or  caring,  where  they  were — mindful,  though, 
of  the  impending  matinee.  Luncheon  they  ate  at 
her  home,  the  half-companion,  half-secretary,  of 
uncertain  age  and  unmistakable  propriety,  not  in- 
truding. When  it  was  over,  they  drove  to  the 
theatre,  where  Morton  left  her  at  her  request. 

"  I'd  rather  you'd  be  with  me  in  the  morning, 
and  not  in  the  theatre  in  the  afternoon,"  she  said. 
"It  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  the  ecstasy  of  know- 
ing you  were  there,  across  the  footlights,  waiting 
for  me.  So,  whatever  arrangements  you  have  to 
make,  please  make  them  then." 

"  And  in  the  evening?  May  I  come  and  see  you 
act  then?" 

"  Oh,  in  the  evening  we'll  be  old  married  folks, 
and  I'll  expect  you  to  see  me  home  from  my  work," 
she  said,  her  divinely  conscious  look  belying  her 
casual  tone. 

'  We  shall  have  a  honeymoon  of  about  ninety 
minutes,"  he  reminded  her,  "  most  of  which  will 
be  consumed  at  dinner.  Have  you  any  suggestions 
as  to  where  you'd  like  to  dine?  "' 

No;  she  had  not.  "  So  it's  with  you,"  she 
said. 

420 


"The  Brushwood  Piles" 

He  was  at  the  stage  door  waiting  for  her,  with 
a  carriage,  when  the  last  act  was  no  more  than 
well  under  way.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before 
she  appeared,  sweet  as  a  flower  in  her  little  spring 
street  gown  of  pale  tan,  with  a  pink  rose  at  her 
breast  and  another  underneath  the  brim  of  her 
black  plumed  hat. 

The  sunshine  was  streaming  obliquely  through 
the  glorious  Transfiguration  window  as  they  took 
their  places  before  the  altar;  the  birds  were  carol- 
ling an  evensong  of  spring  joyousness  outside, 
among  the  new-leaving  vines.  The  witnesses  were 
only  the  sexton  and  the  organist,  who  interrupted 
his  practice  for  this  brief  service. 

And  when  they  stepped  out  of  the  sweetly-still 
church  into  the  quaint  little  yard,  with  the  roar  of 
Fifth  Avenue's  six  o'clock  traffic  only  a  few  feet 
away,  Felicity  said,  with  a  look  that  matched  her 
words, 

"  It  is  the  Church  of  the  Transfiguration — isn't 
it?" 

"  Send  the  man  away,  we  don't  want  him," 
she  begged,  as  the  cabman,  with  unwonted  cere- 
mony, got  down  to  open  the  door  for  them. 

So  they  wandered  out,  into  the  spring  sunset, 
and  melted  into  the  human  current  flowing  up 
Fifth  Avenue.  A  good  many  people  recognized 
Felicity,  and  turned  to  look  after  her.  "  But 

421 


Felicity 


none  of  them,"  she  said,  "  knows  how  happy  I  am. 
Oh,  I  hope  other  people  are  happy,  too — happier 
than  we  can  guess !  " 

Once  or  twice  they  stopped  to  look  into  shop 
windows — now  at  a  picture,  now  at  some  antique 
silver,  now  at  a  splendid  floral  display.  "  Don't 
you  always,"  she  said,  "  choose  what  you'd  take 
if  the  window  broke,  or  if  some  one  came  along 
and  offered  you  your  pick?  I  always  do!  I  could 
walk  in  and  buy  any  of  it,  I  suppose,  but  I  never 
think  of  that;  they  wouldn't  interest  me  if  I 
remembered  it." 

She  loved  the  swift-moving  current  of  people, 
the  human  tide — loved  to  be  in  it  and  of  it,  to 
watch  it  and  wonder  about  it,  and  feel  that  she 
understood  it,  and  her  eyes  were  so  shining  bright 
with  the  pleasurableness  of  this  drifting  that  Mor- 
ton felt,  as  he  watched  her,  more  than  he  had  ever 
felt  before,  what  that  thing  was  in  her  which  made 
her  great. 

"  It's  so  wonderful,"  she  said,  "  to  feel  that  you 
like  this,  too — that  I  don't  seem  like  a  crazy  thing 
to  you  because  of  my  strange  preferences — as  I 
must  seem  to  most  people,  I  know. 

"  I'm  glad  I  didn't  try  to  choose  my  honey- 
moon," she  went  on,  presently,  "  Because  I 
couldn't  ever  have  chosen  between  this  and  an- 
other— between  this  and  riding  on  the  river  in  a 
ferry-boat!  No  one  knows  how  I  love  the  river 

422 


"The  Brushwood  Piles" 

at  evening,  when  the  sun  makes  the  windows  oppo- 
site shine  like  burnished  shields  and  whitens  the 
dingy  canvas  on  the  fishing  boats — and  by  and 
by,  the  lights  begin  to  blossom  in  the  tall  buildings, 
and  the  red  and  green  lanterns  on  the  masts  of 
anchored  ships  shine  out  in  the  pale  dusk,  and  the 
ferry-boats,  stealing  across  the  big,  black  river, 
throw  long,  wavering  lines  of  light  on  the  water 
from  their  brilliant  cabins — and  I  hang,  ecstatic, 
over  the  guard  rail,  and  am  lonesome  because  no 
one  but  me  seems  agape  over  these  things.  But 
you  would — wouldn't  you?" 

At  Felicity's  corner  they  looked  down  toward 
her  house,  and  kept  on.  "  Now  I  do  begin  to 
realize  I'm  on  my  honeymoon,"  she  said,  de- 
lighted as  a  child  not  to  know  where  she  was 
going.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  they  came  to 
one  of  the  quiet,  uptown  hotels,  patronized  mostly 
by  families.  Morton  had  his  key  in  his  pocket 
and  did  not  go  to  the  desk.  It  was  quietly  evident, 
however,  that  he  was  expected. 

Felicity  followed  him  down  the  long  hall,  after 
they  left  the  elevator  on  the  fourth  floor,  with  an 
ecstatic  sense  of  being  led,  of  having  her  well-be- 
ing supremely  considered.  Not  her  comfort, 
merely — some  one  always  looked  out  for  that; 
nor  her  health  and  safety — those  were  always 
valuable  assets  to  somebody  besides  herself.  But 
her  happiness !  Morton  understood  what  happi- 

423 


Felicity 


ness  meant  to  her — that  was  the  great  thing  about 
his  companionship :  the  same  things  meant  happi- 
ness to  them  both.  It  was  unspeakably  delicious  to 
follow  him,  not  knowing  where  he  meant  to  go  or 
what  he  meant  to  do,  but  sure  it  would  be  what 
made  her  happy,  and,  best  of  all,  that  what  made 
her  happy  was  what  made  him  happy,  too ! 

He  unlocked  a  door  and  motioned  her  in.  The 
twilight  was  quite  gray,  but  he  did  not  turn  on  the 
electric  lights.  On  the  hearth  of  the  little  sitting- 
room — not  of  necessity  but  because  of  things  he 
had  heard  her  say — a  handful  of  fire  burned;  be- 
fore it,  two  easy  chairs  were  drawn  up;  through 
the  open  door  of  the  room  beyond  Felicity  could 
see  her  familiar  dressing  silver  spread  out  to  her 
comfort  by  Celeste,  who  had  been  and  gone.  A 
small  table  was  laid  for  a  simple  dinner,  and  the 
centre  of  the  table  was  gay  with  a  bunch  of  pink 
roses. 

Felicity  stepped  into  the  room,  noting  in  a  glance 
its  conventional  "  hotel  "  appointments — like  hun- 
dreds of  hotel  sitting-rooms  she  had  fretted  lonely 
hours  in — and  this — this  wondrousness,  in  a 
touch,  a  single,  love-inspired  forethought;  sink- 
ing into  one  of  the  deep  chairs  before  the  little  fire, 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  if,  somehow, 
she  feared  to  look  again  lest  the  vision  be  gone. 

"  '  The  Brushwood  Piles ! '  '  she  murmured, 
"Oh,  '  The  Brushwood  Piles!'" 

424 


"The  Brushwood  Piles" 

He  came  and  knelt  beside  her  and  took  her  hand 
gently  away  from  her  face. 

'  Truly?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Truly !     It's  all  as  I've  dreamed  it — all  here  ! 

"  When  I  read  the  story  the  first  time,"  she  told 
him,  after  a  while,  "  I  was  in  a  hotel,  in  Balti- 
more, and  it  was  Christmas  Eve — the  Christmas 
after — after  Vincent  died — and  I  was  all  alone. 
I  laid  my  head  down  on  the  open  pages  of  the 
magazine  and — I  couldn't  cry,  but  the  great  ache 
that  filled  my  throat  nearly  choked  me.  And  by 
and  by  I  got  up  and  put  the  magazine  in  the  fire. 
'  A  man  has  no  business  to  write  a  thing  like  that!  ' 
I  cried,  '  It's  hard  enough  and  lonesome  enough, 
life  is,  without  tormenting  people  with  his  Brush- 
wood Boy!  '  But  afterwards  I  sent  and  bought 
another  copy,  and  kept  it  always  by  me,  and — by 
and  by  I  began  to  believe !  " 

She  was  holding  his  face  against  her  breast  with 
a  divine  tenderness.  "  Now,"  she  went  on,  reso- 
lutely but  as  if  the  resolution  took  all  her  strength, 
"  we've  found  each  other,  and  nobody  was  ever, 
ever,  ever  so  happy  as  we  are.  And  yet " 

"  And  yet — ?  "  he  echoed. 

"  And  yet  there'll  be  so  many  heart-hungry 
nights  when  my  work  is  done  and  I  want  you,  and 
your  work  is  done  and  you  want  me.  I  suppose 
if  it  were  not  so  we  shouldn't  have  been  given  this, 
— this  wonderful  thing  that's  happened  to  us.  It 

425 


Felicity 

wouldn't  do,  I  guess,  for  us  to  have  so  much  hap- 
piness, such  perfect  companionship,  and  mock  the 
lonely  world.  It  is  a  lonely  world !  Nearly  every- 
body in  it  has  an  intolerable  heart-hunger  and  I 
suppose  it's  good  to  be  hungry  with  them,  some- 
times— they  won't  have  our  ministry  unless  we  are. 
I  think  I  can  see,  dear,  why — why  things  are  as 
they  are  with  you  and  me — one  keeps  one's  fellow- 
ship with  the  world,  so — and  one  must  do  that! 
Love  dies  when  we  deny  other  claims  than  its  own ; 
we'll  deserve  better  for  our  love,  we'll  be  true  to 
our  work.  Oh,  give  me  courage  to  believe  this, 
darling — courage  to  go  on !  " 

The  little  clock,  inevitable  belonging  of  her 
dressing-case,  chimed  seven  and  startled  them 
from  their  firelight  communion. 

"  You  haven't  had  your  dinner!  "  said  Morton, 
self-reproach  fully. 

"  But  I've  had  the  most  beautiful  honeymoon 
that  ever  was  in  all  the  world,"  she  murmured, 
standing  up  and  reaching  up  her  arms  to  wind 
them  'round  his  neck,  "  and  now,  I'll  try  to  make 
other  folks  a  little  richer  for  my  happiness." 


THE    END 


426 


A  '"•"•iiiiiniiiillll 

°00110739 


